The Third Awakening
by marcus aure1ius
Summary: BtVSHP. After her world came crashing down, Buffy arrives at Hogwarts during Harry's 7th year to find herself and a reason for living. HBP SPOILERS.
1. Rebirth

**Disclaimer:** All intellectual property pertaining to Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and Harry Potter belong to Joss Whedon (Mutant Enemy and 20th Century Fox) and J.K. Rowling (Scholastic), respectively. I claim ownership over this story alone.

**Timeline:** Post BtVS7, AtS5 and HP6 **excluding** the developments below:

- Draco's mission  
- the Unbreakable Vow  
- A certain character death  
- R.A.B.

and **including** AU:

- Changes in O.W.L. scores to accommodate class schedules  
- Horace Slughorn resigned after HBP  
- Snape is once again Potions Professor  
- Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Draco have passed their Apparition Tests

**Author's Note:** _The New Testament _identifies Abaddon as the 'Angel of the Abyss' in Revelations 9:11. The Greek equivalent for Abaddon is Apollyon. He is one of the princes of the Demons and also known as "the Destroyer", lower in status to only Lucifer. Abaddon is noted on _Wikipedia_ as a fallen Seraphim from the first Heavenly Sphere.

Many thanks to all the betas who have helped me along the way!

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A Death blow is a Life blow to Some

A Death blow is a Life blow to Some—  
Who till they died, did not alive become—  
Who had they lived, had died but when—  
They died, Vitality begun.

Emily Dickinson  
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-

**01. Rebirth**

-

Buffy Summers was intimate with death. It was something she lived and breathed, dealt with her hands each night, while it chased her at the heels. Like most, she had been afraid to die, that first time. The second time had been different, snatches and whispers of a time half remembered and half dreamt. It had become something else entirely—a desire too indecent to voice, so thoroughly hidden until it became but a shadow of memory long lost in the murky backwaters of the mind. More than anything now, she recalled the sensations of dying with a supernatural clarity, lingering instants of perfect awareness: The lightheaded giddiness of blood loss tempering paralyzing panic, the desperate struggle for breath only to encounter the liquid poison of stagnant water. The lethargic break of day and air whipping past her face as invisible fingers pulled at her descent followed by the jarring shock and searing numbness. The dull, burning ache, limbs limp as if the tendons had been severed, hands too slick with blood and guts to grip the hilt of her scythe.

And then,

the enwombing stillness,

the impenetrable hush,

nothingness,

completion.

-

"Hey, kid."

Buffy cracked open her eyes. A searing white glare filled her vision, burning her retinas and springing up stars behind her eyelids as they quickly shut. But it was too late, in that brief glimpse she had already seen someone she never wanted to meet again. Buffy swore. Why couldn't she just die like normal people? Maybe if I don't answer, he'll just leave me alone and go away? A small snort erupted from her lips.

"Summers. You awake?"

So much for that strategy. Sighing dejectedly, she cracked open her eyes again and took in her surroundings. She found herself standing in the middle of a seemingly infinite white space as far as the eye could see. The only breaks in the monochromatic landscape appeared to be herself and the Balance Demon, who sauntered nonchalantly up to her, wearing his usual bowler hat and tacky suit in an offending shade of puke green. For the lack of an alternative, she pulled herself up into a standing position and crossed her arms. "What the hell are you doing here, Whistler? Or better yet, where the hell am I? And what am I doing here!" she spat at him before he even had a chance to open his mouth again.

Whistler raised his hands in mock surrender as he took a small step backward from the seething Slayer. "Woah, looks like somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

When Buffy offered no response, he shrugged it off. "Look kid, we're in limbo right now, a kind of holding zone between life and the sweet thereafter. I'm here to make you a deal. And by the way, you're dead again," he said with an apologetic half-smile.

Buffy glared. Of course she had died again. She had known that fact with absolute certainty, and had made her peace with her fate. In truth, she had been looking forward to the chance to finally enjoy her eternal rest. She had been looking forward to that day for a long time now. No, the only development that surprised the veteran Slayer was the fact that she was currently stuck in some ether dimension that looked suspiciously like a Matrix knockoff and about to be propositioned to by a short, pesky, badly dressed Balance Demon.

A frown crept onto her face as she tried to make sense of why she would possibly end up here with Whistler. Fragments flitted in and out of consciousness until they coalesced. Oh god. The blood, the carnage... strewn haphazardly all around her on the ground. The dust... "They're dead aren't they?" she gasped. "All of them? Giles, Willow, Xander, Faith, the newbie Slayers, Angel—and Spike..."

Whistler had the decency to look genuinely sympathetic. "For what it's worth kid, I'm sorry it ended that way. You had it rough, but I'm just a messenger, nothin' I coulda done about it."

Buffy tipped her chin upward, trying desperately to blink away the rapidly welling tears that now scorched her eyes more than the blinding light. There was no way in hell that she would ever let Whistler see her cry. She clenched her fists until she felt her nails digging painfully into the skin of her palms as she fought to hold back the overwhelming grief that suddenly slammed into her with the heft of her old troll hammer.

"Look kid, I'm sorry—"

"Don't," Buffy hissed, low, menacing. Her sorrow instantly flared into unadulterated rage. Years of being the Slayer had taught her to conceal her vulnerability well to all but a select few. All but one of them was gone now. And the last one remaining was certainly not the meddlesome Balance Demon. Buffy willfully shut herself off from all emotion, letting the Slayer part of her reign supreme, going into the backwoods region of her mind that allowed only cold calculation and brute violence. "Just tell me what the damn deal is." She folded her arms in front of her chest once more, upper lip curling in derision. "And make it quick. I've got a sudden urge to rip out your spine and wear it as a scarf."

"Ouch, still with the imagery, huh?" the short Balance Demon drawled, unperturbed. By now, he was more than used to her unique brand of colorful threats.

She simply stared at him, not caring to dignify that with a response. Whistler sighed again and shook his head a little. Buffy Summers was all business and no pleasure nowadays. Not that he could blame her, the poor kid.

"Alright, here's the deal. You're right, the only survivors are Rona and Vi. Don't worry 'bout them, though. They're tucked away safe in the mother country." He paused for a moment, looking straight into her eyes that were staring unblinkingly back. "The deal is: you can either stay dead and enjoy your eternal rest or be sent back to continue the good fight."

She laughed incredulously at that. It sounded dry and shallow, harsh even to her ears as it rang out across the unending white space. "And why, pray tell, would I ever want to take the second option? What's the catch?"

Whistler chuckled, "You don't miss a beat, slayer. The thing is, you go up to the Pearly Gates and your two vamp pals get the fryer. You go back, and they get redemption."

Buffy remained silent for a long time, ruminating over the PTB's latest bombshell as she stared with morbid fascination at the small trickle of blood on her hands as they opened, closed. Blood. Pain. Death. She was so tired of all of it—fighting the good fight, dying, _living_. "So if I go back, Spike and Angel will really get into Heaven?" she asked Whistler, not bothering to look at him because she already knew his answer. It was all atrociously unfair. "What, saving the world a few times on their own wasn't enough!" she yelled bitterly. Just like my saving the world at least fifteen times over wasn't enough? she wanted to shout to the Powers. Just like how dying three times wasn't enough?

"That's right, kid. They were evil a whole lot longer before turning white-hat. Two for one ain't even a fair trade, kid. The Powers are only offering this as a favor, considering the weight you pull for the good guys."

An incredulous snort escaped her lips at that. "Sure, and the fact that I'll have to slave away as the PTB's prize Warrior of the Light again has nothing to do with it."

Whistler appeared slightly annoyed. "It's simple enough, kid. What's it gonna be?"

God, to finally rest in peace, it sounded like bliss. She _knew_ what that bliss felt like, even if the actual memories of Heaven were all but faded glimpses and shattered remnants now. Already, the memory of Heaven seemed a lifetime away. With a humorless chuckle, Buffy reminded herself that technically it _had been_ a lifetime ago. Like a siren song that tickled at the back of her mind, the she yearned for Heaven, for her escape from all the horror and heartbreak that was slowly making her lose whatever little humanity she still possessed. She wanted to go back to that bliss more than anything in the world, but not if the price was letting Angel and Spike burn just to gratify her own impatience and selfishness. No, it's really not much of a choice, is it? Taking in a deep breath, she forcibly shoved aside the desperate ache, steeling herself for a return to the sacred duty that she had never asked for, had never wanted.

"Okay. I'll go back," Buffy finally answered in a deadened voice, more empty than their surroundings.

"Knew you had it in you, kid."

She held his gaze firmly, icy hazel eyes boring into his brown orbs. "Don't let me ever see you again, Whistler. This is it. I'm through with the PTB."

"Whatever you say, princess," Whistler said dismissively, already turning away from her.

She really did want to rip out his spine in that exact moment, but somehow managed to stay her hand. Buffy Summers simply watched as he stalked away.

"By the way, you'll be getting a few enhancements to help lighten the load," the Balance Demon called over his shoulder.

What! Better not be more demony aspects...

In a blinding flash, the bright space disappeared. Buffy instantly jolted awake. She found herself immersed in total darkness, in a tight metal box, lying under a sheet... and naked. For a few seconds that seemed to stretch for an eternity, her heart thundered in her ears as blind panic rose in the pit of her stomach and her breath sped dangerously close to hyperventilating. It was the same crazed desperation she had felt when she woke in her coffin years before. Then, cool rationality took over and the blonde Slayer brushed aside the fear and concentrated on catching her breath. She pulled both arms out from underneath the sheet and felt for her surroundings. Great, I'm in the fucking morgue! And they say third time's the charm, Buffy grumbled, shivering at the feeling of cold steel on her uncovered skin. Lifting an arm above her head, she groped for the locking mechanism, her hand falling on a handle.

_Click._

Thanking whatever gods were listening that the door wasn't locked, Buffy slid her tray out of its drawer, noting that her particular compartment was number 24. Wrapping the stiff, sterile sheet around her body protectively, she climbed agilely down from her final resting place of steel. She shuddered, not entirely from the chill. The room was bathed in unnatural fluorescent light. Glancing up at the clock on the wall above the doorway, the blonde Slayer breathed a sigh of relief. 3:26 A.M. At least time's working on my side. Now clothes would be nice. Buffy's gaze flitted around the too silent room, quickly spotting another cabinet shelf along the opposite wall. She opened the medium-sized drawer labeled '#20-30' and found a clear plastic bag containing her clothes and sundry possessions inside. Mentally rejoicing, she quickly donned her bloodied and torn white tank top, black leather pants, leather coat and boots, wrinkling her nose in disgust. Well, at least all my battle wounds are healed. So, it's not a total loss, Buffy thought in mock cheeriness. It didn't cheer her up.

With shaky hands, Buffy fished out the last item from the bag, an intricate diamond ring. She stared down at it for several minutes before finally sliding it onto her left middle finger. The tumultuous memories associated with the ring rapidly flashed in a fresh onslaught in her mind. Buffy swiftly suppressed them, or she would have risked crumpling right then and there and weeping for a good week straight in that same spot if no one had bothered to stop her. The blonde Slayer turned back to the wall of drawers from where she had crawled out to life, wondering briefly if any of the Scoobies and newbie Slayers was in the other compartments. Buffy crushed the thought immediately. Even if they were there, she had decided that she did not want to find out. The she quickly slipped out of the room and into the deserted hallway. Following the corridor to the main lobby, Buffy kicked open the heavy reinforced metal doors of the front entrance, not caring that the safety alarm began its shrill shriek as she stepped outside to freedom.

The chilly air hit Buffy at once as familiar sights and sounds assaulted her senses. She was still in Cleveland. With no particular destination in mind, Buffy randomly turned left down the street. It took a good three minutes before her spidey sense prickled. Cursing up a storm in her head, Buffy turned abruptly into the next alley she saw and sank into the shadows. A tall demon with bright green skin, tiny horns on his head, and red eyes entered the alley a moment later. He was wearing a flashy orange suit and a deep blue silk shirt underneath. The unidentified demon stopped, puzzled by the disappearance of the small girl he had been trailing. Before he knew what was happening, he was shoved up none too gently against a brick wall, a small hand firmly clasped around his neck, his feet dangling five inches above the ground.

"_What_ are you and _why_ were you following me?" Buffy ground out between clenched teeth in a dangerous, low voice.

The green-skinned demon's hands flew upward, trying to dislodge the small hand that was crushing his windpipe. When he discovered the futility of his efforts, he choked out, "Listen sugar, sorry for following you, but I'm here because of a friend."

Her grip tightened. It was a bluff as far as she was concerned. "Just answer the question you Siegfried and Roy wannabe."

The green demon was left gasping for desperately needed breath. "Okay, okay, take it easy, sweetie pie," he rasped, "I'm an Empath Demon. Name's Lorne. Angel made me promise to find you in case anything ever happened to him." A beat later, he seemed to remember her jibe. A highly affronted grimace settled across his face. Somehow managing to puff out his chest even in such a compromised position, he defended, "Please, babe, I am _way_ more entertaining than that flashy, passé duo!"

Buffy fixed him her patented Slayer death-glare. Lorne instinctively tried to shrink back from her, but found it rather impossible as his back was already pressed up against a wall. "Why should I believe you? Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now," her voice sounding as unfeeling as the slab of cold steel she had lain on minutes prior.

Lorne just now seemed to realize the danger he was in. He blanked out as his mind raced to remember. Buffy's grip tightened further. "Oh! Angel said to mention your 'cookie dough' talk. And to give something to you, it's in my front breast pocket," the scared demon gasped.

She eyed him warily, but didn't make a move as he tentatively fished something out from his pocket. In his hand was a silver claddaugh ring.

Buffy recoiled with such supernatural speed that Lorne was dropped unceremoniously onto his feet in an undignified heap, clutching his neck and wheezing. The ring fell onto the pavement with a small clink. The she stared down at the ring, transfixed. Then, she bent down and picked it up, not noticing that Lorne had retreated a good ten feet away from her in the meantime. "Okay, I believe you," she whispered, looking up at him.

Lorne rubbed his tender neck and hesitated. He heaved a great sigh and walked back toward her, albeit slightly guardedly. His heart broke a little at the look on her face. It was the look of hopelessness. He smiled down at Spike and Angel's girl gently, "How about we talk this over in my hotel room, honeydew?"

The Slayer nodded numbly and followed him out of the dark alley. At this point, she wouldn't have even cared if Fashion Disaster No. 2 of the day was out to trick her into her third—no—fourth death. In all honesty, she just wanted to curl up somewhere and cry herself to sleep.

-

Buffy burrowed deeper into the warm blankets that enveloped her like a protective cocoon. The day had already began with bright, comprised light. The half-closed blinds sent geometric stripes across the sheets as she tried desperately to fall back into sleep. But the efforts were fruitless. Her superior hearing magnified every noise of the city. Traffic and construction, dogs barking, the irritated beeping of cars and tractors. Reluctantly, she pulled back the covers, pushed herself out of bed, and walked into the adjoining bathroom, wondering briefly if she had done the right thing. Then, apathy set in and she couldn't care less. Buffy glanced in the mirror, seeing her reflection for the first time since her third awakening. What the Slayer saw made her death-grip the sink to stop from falling back in shock.


	2. Valediction

**Author's Note:** Xander and Andrew's quotes are taken from George Lucas's excellent film, _Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith_. The structure of this chapter was inspired by an episode of Joss Whedon's superb television series _Firefly_, entitled 'Out of Gas'. The old black and white film that was alluded to is the classic _Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb_.

Praise and thanks to my beta-readers!

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The Inventory of Good-bye

I have a pack of letters,  
I have a pack of memories.  
I could cut out the eyes of both.  
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.  
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,  
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?  
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.  
Besides - what a bargain - no expensive phone callcaps.  
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.   
No manicky laughter or blessing from an off-lot priest.  
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.  
Blessing us. Blessing us

Am I to bless the lost you,  
sitting here with my clumsy soul?   
Propaganda time is over.  
I sit here on the spike of truth.   
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory  
that slides in and out of my brain.  
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown  
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.  
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,  
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.  
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path -  
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.  
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,  
of two who were one upon a large woodpile  
and ignite, and I was once ignited, and let it whirl  
into flame, reaching the sky  
making it dangerous with its red.

Anne Sexton  
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-

**02. Valediction**

**-**

Buffy stared aimlessly out of the double-layer window from her seat next to Lorne, her eyes unseeing. She and the green-skinned karaoke enthusiast were flying first class from Las Vegas to London, all travel expenses to be reimbursed in full by the New Watchers Council. Leaning her forehead against the cushioned paneling of the airplane cabin, Buffy idly fantasized about kicking open the emergency exit and throwing herself bodily off from the plane. Chuckling sadistically to herself, the blonde Slayer conjured up images of herself plummeting into the waiting abyss of the blue Pacific in her head. The flight intercom chimed to life just as her mental counterpart plunged into the bottomless depths that promised absolution and repose. For a brief instant, Buffy entertained the idea in earnest, wondering whether she would die first from the asphyxiation during the fall or the impact itself. She heaved a regretful sigh as the pilot announced their scheduled landing in London International Airport in one hour's time.

If only dying were that easy...

Glancing down at her black dress clad self, the petite blonde marveled once again at the newly unmarred skin. Seeing her seventeen year-old self staring back at her in the mirror had been quite the shock. Of course, Buffy had cursed herself for her naivete afterwards. Freaky shit always seemed to happen to her and those around her, and after eleven years as the Chosen One, she really should have known better. Still, Buffy could not have been more pleased about the physical regression the PTB had gifted her. As a Vampire Slayer, she had always healed fast and seldom scarred. But even her impressive rapid healing had not been enough to disguise the physical testament of her second taste of eternity. She still remembered the uncontained expressions of horror on her rescuers' faces when she had finally emerged from that particular hell, almost physically unrecognizable and half driven out of her mind. Willow had blanched and convulsively thrown up on the spot, while for the first time since Buffy met the brunette Slayer, Faith appeared to be near tears. But Spike, he had looked at her as if she were still beautiful... Thankfully, Willow's glamour spell had worked like a charm. Within the day, the blonde Slayer was back to looking like her old self. Only Buffy herself was able to tell the difference when she bothered to look hard enough.

Buffy snuck a gander at Lorne, who was currently humming along to the latest Mariah Carey CD, looking unaffected for the first time since he'd sought her out. His Wiccan witch friend had conveniently cast a glamour spell on the Empath Demon so he would blend in better with their fellow travelers. All in all, the blonde Slayer thought Lorne looked adorable as a tall, dark-haired man, so adorable to her at that moment that the corners of her mouth twitched for a brief instant, so briefly that you would miss it in the blink of an eye. Feeling the burning sensation of guilt beginning to coil in the pit of her stomach, Buffy quickly shifted her gaze away from the loveable demon. She was truly sorry for the way she had behaved during the past week, for shutting Lorne out so thoroughly despite his admirable efforts at playing the supportive, chipper host even as he was dealing with his own grief over Angel and Spike. She was sorry for the mess she had made in his bathtub, sorry for his having to rush her to the emergency room, sorry for his having to hide all the knives in the kitchen. She was sorry for a lot of things.

Vaguely, Buffy recalled how she had locked herself away in one of the guest bedrooms in Lorne's amazing Vegas penthouse suite as the full weight of everything finally sunk in. Day and night had bled one into another as time crawled at an agonizing pace and the Slayer lost herself to sorrow and grief. Sitting alone with her demons under the garish rays of the Nevada sun, Buffy had been blind to the world as her mind drowned itself in half-remembered reminiscences and nightmarish hallucinations. It had all come to an abrupt stop, though, when Lorne had burst in on her, his ruby eyes wild with worry and concern. The days after that had been hard, but the Empath Demon had stubbornly kept her from slipping back into that dark place. For that, Buffy would be eternally grateful.

A light tap on the shoulder interrupted the Slayer's thoughts. Turning her head, Buffy noticed that the pretty stewardess had parked up her cart beside them in the aisle and that Lorne had removed his earplugs and was gazing in her direction, his snack table pulled down to accommodate a lunch tray.

"Chicken broccoli or filet mignon, miss?" the flight attendant inquired pleasantly.

"No thank you," Buffy answered, lowering her own snack table from the back of the seat directly in front of hers.

"Would you like something to drink, then?" the stewardess asked as she placed the tray on Buffy's table.

"Just water, please."

Buffy gingerly picked up her clear plastic cup, idly observing how the light reflected off of the sparkling surface.

"'It's over, Anakin! I have the high ground!'" threatened the Obi-Wan action figure from atop a can of soda.

A beat later.

"'You underestimate my power!'" cried the miniature Anakin Skywalker figurine, blandishing his lightsaber in a menacing manner.

"'Don't try it.'" Obi-Wan jumped down from his perch, viciously swiping his tiny, plastic lightsaber at his young apprentice's left arm.

"Ow, Xander! That's my joystick hand!" Andrew shrieked in a slightly high-pitched voice, rubbing his right hand gingerly.

Xander rolled his eyes melodramatically at the junior Watcher's peevishness. "That's not part of the movie, Andrew."

"Oh! Okay, sorry! Continue," Andrew quickly amended, righting his Anakin Skywalker to confront his Jedi Master.

Obi-Wan's lightsaber lashed out at Anakin's left arm again before going for his kneecaps.

"'You were The Chosen One! It was said that you would destroy The Sith, not join the—'"

By this point, Buffy, who had been sitting across the aisle from the pair and observing with marked amusement, burst into a silent fit of giggles. Slapping a hand over her mouth, she tried in vain to contain her mirth. The blonde Slayer continued to snigger quietly into her hand, not sure whether the exchange was actually funny or if the Transatlantic, flight-induced insomnia was finally getting to her.

"'-m! It was you who would bring balance to The Forc—'"

"You're doing it all wrong!" Andrew complained. "Everyone knows that Obi-Wan cuts off Anakin's legs first and then his arm!"

"Oh, shut up or I'll break your lightsaber for real, Andrew!" Xander hissed in an annoyed tone.

The blonde-haired, junior Watcher's eyes widened comically for a second as he hid his beloved action figure with a shocked gasp. "You don't have the midiclorians!"

In response, Xander attacked the action figure clutched in Andrew's hand with his own.

"Hey!" Andrew screeched, causing the elder Watcher dozing lightly in the seat at his side to stir momentarily. He poked Obi-Wan back with Anakin's lightsaber in retaliation and a frenzied fight of arm-jabbing ensued until the plastic cup of water sitting on Giles' pull-down snack table was knocked over in all the excitement. Giles woke with a start as he felt icy wetness seeping through the thin fabric of his slacks. Bolting out of his seat, he surveyed the still-dueling pair for a split-second before rounding on them in a Ripper-like fashion.

"ANDREW! XANDER! Will you two stop playing with your confounded dolls for one minute!" Giles shot Andrew a withering glare as the lanky young man gasped in outrage at his revered deluxe edition action figurines being relegated to 'doll' status. "As much as it would behoove you to behave like serious adults for once, need I impress upon your thick skulls that we may well be heading into the apo—"

He paused exasperatedly as Xander started guffawing like a crazed hyena. "What is it, Xander?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

"It looks like you peed your pants, G-man!" Xander replied, pointing a finger toward the elder Watcher's trousers.

Giles looked ready to threaten the incorrigible youth with bodily harm if he ever called him by that atrocious name again, but stopped in his tracks when he glanced down to check the state of his trousers. Sighing in defeat, the head Watcher stalked off in the direction of the men's room of their private charter plane, muttering darkly under his breath about the abysmal pitfalls of being completely surrounded by inane children.

It was a fucking travesty, to be burying her friends when, by all intents and purposes, they should have outlived her by least a couple of decades. In retrospect, Buffy was thankful that the weeks of frantic preparation preceding their confrontation with Abaddon had reunited them all from their respective corners of the world. Over the years after Sunnydale, she and the Scooby gang had inevitably drifted apart as the Herculean task of simultaneously rebuilding the Watchers Council, starting up the baby Slayer academy, and guarding the Cleveland Hellmouth had scattered them to wherever they had been needed. It had taken an impending apocalypse to throw together the diverse group of individuals who had unwittingly become virtual strangers to her (Faith and Spike being the sole exceptions). It was during those desperate days that Buffy had rediscovered glimpses of what had compelled her to fall in love with them in the first place. And even though time had not healed the grievous wound they had dealt her four years prior, she had slowly begun to question her decision of keeping them at arm's length. Now, she was very, very glad that she had had the chance to spend time with them again.

Draining the contents in a single gulp, the Slayer crushed the cup in her fist and climbed to her feet. At Lorne's concerned glance, she shrugged and mouthed 'bathroom' before making her hasty escape into the cramped cubicle. Turning on the cold water tap, Buffy bent forward, splashing the cool liquid on her face.

She looked up in the mirror to see Willow exit one of the stalls and stride over to the sink counter beside her.

"It kinda feels just like old times, running into you in the girl's restroom," the redhead grinned as she turned on the faucet to wash her hands.

Buffy took the time to observe Willow. This confident, mega Wiccan witch was so different from the shy, insecure, social outcast she had befriended eleven years ago that sometimes the blonde Slayer had to pinch herself. Shaking her head slightly, Buffy wondered when exactly it was that Willow, Xander, and she had all grown up. She had never thought she'd see the day that their little Scooby Gang passed from the formative years into adulthood. And now, they were flying into Cleveland for another apocalypse tomorrow morning. It did feel just like old times. "Yeah," Buffy scrunched up her nose, beating back the unbidden nostalgia that tugged insistently at her heartstrings. It didn't bode well to wax sentimental right before a big, evil throwdown.

"Except I feel like one of the teachers now instead of one of the students."

Willow shot her a funny look. "Well, technically, you are a teacher."

"Yeah," the veteran Slayer yawned, stretching out her sore, overworked muscles like a cat before sprawling bonelessly on the sectional sofa by the door.

Willow walked over, plopping down on the empty space beside her. "How did the junior Slayers exit exams go?"

"They were fun," the petite blonde breathed with an air of pride and content, "most of the girls passed with flying colors." Turning her head to regard Willow, she grinned a little in self-deprecation. "Except, I think we should rename it to 'Let's Beat the Living Crap out of Buffy Day' instead next year, 'cause I'm feeling all kinds of ow right now." If there is a next year, she wanted to add.

Willow arched an eyebrow at that. "You mean one of them actually beat you?"

"Nah, they just had to last at least five minutes with me in hand-to-hand combat," she answered, rolling her neck to get out the kinks. "But it got a little hairy after having to do that thirty times."

"Oh, hey!" Willow chirped excitedly, her eyes brightening. "I could brew you up an anti-exhaustion potion. It'll take the edge right off!"

Buffy opened her mouth to refuse before quickly changing her mind. They were both afraid of talking about real things with each other now. Sometimes, she'd call Willow to ask about Kennedy and her life down in Rio or they would chat about the baby Slayer academy and Spike, but they never said much anymore. As if by mutual, tacit agreement, they had decided that it was safer to tread lightly than to revisit the painful past. So, Buffy smiled and nodded her thanks, not vocalizing her qualms about how the redhead still thought sometimes that magic could make all things better, heal all hurts. Real life didn't work that way. Sighing wistfully, Buffy curled up next to Willow on the sofa, resting her head on the witch's slender shoulder.

"I'm glad you're here, Wil."

She remembered the two of them sitting there, just talking and laughing, gabbing like they used to in high school before both had lost their innocence to broken hearts, death, loss, and their respective inner demons. It wasn't until the hours had long stretched into night that Giles barged in to imperiously usher them off to bed. There hadn't been any deep confessions that night, nor were any needed. Buffy had seen so clearly in Willow's eyes the unspoken yearning to go back to the good old days, to erase all the badness and be able to live in simple black and white again. Willow had wanted so badly for things to be like they were. And, deep down, so did she...

Hearing the pilot's announcement for all passengers to return to their seats, Buffy detachedly dabbed the water droplets dry with a paper towel as she stared into her lifeless eyes before pulling open the door and resettling in her spot next to Lorne. The blonde Slayer attempted to shut her mind off from all conscious thought as she gazed resolutely into the white expanse of perpetual cloud cover outside of her window.

Buffy started as she felt her hand being gently squeezed. She whirled around to find Lorne pulling her up to her feet and leading her down the aisle toward the plane's docking tunnel.

She glanced up as Spike clasped her hand, sending him a smile that faltered despite her best efforts as she watched everyone else exit from the Council HQ's main conference room, or as Andrew had christened it from some old black and white movie: the War Room.

"Chin up, Slayer. 'S not the end o' the world... yet," Spike shot her his trademark smirk before leaning in to brush his lips softly against hers, making her heart flutter for a fleeting instant before anxiety set in once more. Sighing contentedly as his strong arms encircled her small waist, pulling her flush against him, Buffy let herself enjoy the moment a little as his tongue slipped past her lips, deepening the kiss. Before she knew it, Spike had backed her up against the wall, his lithe body pressed up intimately against hers as he kissed a heated path from that sensitive spot behind her ear down to the side of her neck.

"I know what you're doing, mister," Buffy said with increasingly shallow breaths as she tried to stave off her body's response. "You're just trying to distract me."

Spike pulled back to gaze down at her, amusement glinting in his cerulean eyes. "Well, you can't blame a bloke for tryin' to squeeze in some quality pre-apocalyptic shaggin'. Those are the best kind," he added with a wolfish grin. Running his hands down her sides, Spike lifted her up against him, eliciting a moan from the blonde Slayer, who obligingly wrapped her legs around his waist as her skin sparked and burned at his touch.

"Jesus, you two are like freakin' lust bunnies! Can I steal her for a sec before the clothes come flying off?" a familiar female voice said from behind them.

The two of them reluctantly pulled apart as Faith strode into the room and hopped up to perch on the massive oak conference table with a wry grin on her face.

"I'll be in the gym with Peaches, luv," Spike called from the doorway before he left the two veteran Slayers to themselves.

Faith planted her foot on the seat of the leather office chair to her side, nudging it gently so that it slid on its wheels a little away from the table for her sister Slayer. Buffy sighed tiredly as she pushed herself off from the wall, striding over and flopping down on the proffered seat.

"So, what's with the 'something' face, Faith?" she asked, catching the serious expression that had replaced the brunette's usual devil-may-care look.

"Are you sure you can handle this, B? You know that we can go without ya, right?"

Buffy was slighted unnerved by the level of concern she heard in the dark-haired Slayer's voice. "Gee, you sure know how to make a girl feel wanted," she replied lightly, trying to brush aside the concealed question in Faith's words.

The brunette Slayer was not one to be brushed aside so easily, however. "You know what I mean, B," she insisted, rolling her eyes. "Sure you wanna face all that badness again so soon? I sure as hell wouldn't blame you for pulling out now."

Buffy sighed once more, leaning forward to prop her elbows on the table as she rubbed her face with the palms of her hands. "I know, Faith," she sighed. "But Abaddon wasn't really the one the dealing out the fun and torture. For the most part—" she trailed off in a strained voice as the old horrors resurfaced with a vengeance.

Faith reached a hand forward, giving the blonde a firm squeeze on the shoulder and forcing Buffy out of her pained memories. Their eyes locked as the brunette spoke again.

"I'm just worried about ya, B. Sure you'll be okay?"

"Five by five, Faith," Buffy replied in a good imitation of the dark-haired Slayer's trademark catchphrase. "I'll be fine, really."

Faith laughed at that. "Alright, B," she grinned, the cockiness was back. "The fucking bastard won't know what hit him!" she vowed, the vicious glint in her large, doe-like, brown eyes promised gory, bloody revenge on the one who had hurt her beloved sister-in-arms more than she could bear.

Buffy smiled, touched by Faith's affectionate protectiveness. "You know, Faith. I kinda love you—rough edges and all," she professed quietly, her heart swelling with sudden emotion.

A look of naked surprise flickered across the brunette's features for a second, which endeared her to Buffy even more. Sure, Faith put up a front of brazen cockiness, but the little look of delight on her face at the words reminded Buffy of just how much insecurity the dark-haired Slayer hid beneath the bravado.

"You're alright too, B. For a tight-ass bossy bitch," Faith grinned, shaking her head fondly. "Come on," she said while getting up. Pulling the slight blonde along to her feet, Faith threaded her arm through Buffy's. "Let's go find us some popcorn and watch Blondie and Angel beat the crap outta each other."

Buffy allowed herself to be pulled along as she quickly swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, not trusting herself to say anything that wouldn't have sounded like a good-bye.

At the sound of a car door shutting, Buffy awoke to her surroundings. She was now situated in the backseat of a taxi cab with Lorne, no doubt on their way to the cemetery. Leaning her forehead against the glass of the cab window, she watched with no particular interest as the outside world sped past her field of vision in a blur. Buffy felt her chest tighten in anticipation and dread as they drew nearer to their destination. Exhaling a long, ragged breath, she idly traced patterns in the patch of fog that had formed on the curved window pane.

"Couldn't sleep either, huh?"

Buffy stood momentarily frozen as she heard the unmistakable voice coming from behind her. It would have been an understatement to say that she was surprised. After all, he had been purposefully avoiding her for the better part of three weeks now, ever since he found out about her recent engagement. Twisting around from her position in front of Faith's kitchen window, she caught sight of the person whom she had once considered to be the love of her life leaning casually against the island counter in a thin white t-shirt and drawstring sweats. A slight sadness drifted over her heart as the petite blonde realized with a pang that she could no longer sense the presence of the souled vampire the way she used to. Shaking her head, she quickly brushed the wistful emotion aside, determined to just be content with the fact that he was talking to her again in a non-group meeting capacity.

"Sleep is for weaklings," she declared, a small smile gracing her lips that didn't quite reach her burdened hazel eyes as she slid into the tall kitchen stool next to the handsome, dark-haired vampire.

Angel smirked before letting out a wry chuckle.

"God, I always hated the wait," Buffy sighed after several minutes of prolonged silence, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the familiar nervous energy of pre-battle anticipation that thrummed through her body. Running a hand through her sleep-mussed hair, the blonde Slayer tried to banish the nagging sliver of fear that was blossoming in the recesses of her psyche at the thought of their upcoming confrontation with the prince of Hell. She knew better than anyone of the grim odds they faced. On this night, the blonde Slayer held no tricks up her sleeve, no mystical scythe to bolster their numbers, no gaudy monstrosity of a gem to burn away the enemy ranks. Nothing was certain to her save a war that she had no delusions of ever winning despite her vehement, verbal assurances to the others. It was that thought that made her appreciate her former lover's selfless offer of assistance even more.

Angel turned to study her preoccupied visage. "It's always the darkest before dawn," he stated softly.

"Yeah, it really is," Buffy replied sadly, turning her head to meet Angel's gaze. She was suddenly overcome with a need to set things right between them as she gazed into the chocolate-hued orbs she had once loved so deeply, still loved.

"Angel, I'm sorry about—"

The dark-haired vampire held up a hand to halt her half-mumbled apology. "You don't have to apologize, Buffy," he said quietly. "Honestly, I saw it coming that day you left L.A. with him. It was just easier to fall back into the jealous ex routine than to have to face the fact that you'd chosen Captain Peroxide over me."

Buffy couldn't help but feel her heart break a little at the hurt and sobriety in his voice. "It doesn't mean that I love you any less," she began saying, staring at him with pleading eyes and hoping desperately that he would believe her. "It's just that—"

"You don't have to explain either, Buffy," Angel cut in again, his tone of voice was strained but contained no trace of bitterness or anger. He reached over to tuck a lock of errant hair reverently behind the Slayer's ear, his fingers lingering momentarily on the soft side of her cheek. "I'm glad you're finally cookies, even if it's for someone else."

Buffy closed her eyes for a second as she leaned into his comforting, cool touch. She felt a weight lift from her shoulders at once as relief flooded into her system at his roundabout blessing. The Slayer felt her mouth go dry as her mind raced to formulate the words to express how much his acceptance meant to her. Finding that she couldn't, Buffy turned her eyes back to the window to observe the beauty of the rising sun as it slowly made its ascent from the far horizon. Idly, somewhere towards the back of her mind, the petite blonde wondered if this sunrise would be the last as she pulled down the blinds for Angel's safety.

"I can't believe you still remember that stupid analogy," she said instead with a frown.

Angel's smile turned into an amused grin. "I remember everything you've ever said to me."

Buffy pulled a face. "That's good to know," she intoned sarcastically.

"So, you think Spike'll ask me to be his best man?" Angel asked in mock seriousness.

Buffy shot him a look. "I think you'd have better luck offing Faith to take her place as maid of honor," she retorted.

"Point taken." Angel nodded with his characteristic crooked smirk, pushing himself off from the counter and offering her a hand up.

"Come on, Buffy. It's time."

Taking Lorne's proffered hand, she stepped out of the cab and into the present.


	3. The Unexpected Guest

**Author's Note:** The quoted burial rite passage is taken from _Book of Common Prayer_. The description of Hogwarts comes from the HP series and a J.K. Rowling quote. Virtual cookies to my lovely betas!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
Silence

Since I lost you I am silence-haunted,  
Sounds wave their little wings   
A moment, then in weariness settle  
On the flood that soundless swings.

Whether the people in the street  
Like pattering ripples go by,  
Or whether the theatre sighs and sighs  
With a loud, hoarse sigh:

Or the wind shakes a ravel of light  
Over the dead-black river,  
Or night's last echoing  
Makes the daybreak shiver:

I feel the silence waiting  
To take them all up again  
In its vast completeness, enfolding  
The sound of men.

David Herbert Lawrence  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

-

**03. The Unexpected Guest**

**- **

Like the true gentleman that he was, Lorne had gallantly offered his arm to her in a silent show of support. Buffy idly wondered if the gesture was something the Empath Demon in all probability regretted doing now, as she clutched it in a vise-like grip, as if it alone were her lifeline. In a way, it was. With her other hand, the blonde Slayer adjusted her dark sunglasses once more, not wanting any of the funeral attendees to discern her identity. The truth was, she had already recognized far more people present than her beleaguered mental state could withstand. Sitting in the front two rows of folding chairs were Olivia, Xander's parents and relatives that she still remembered from his almost-wedding to Anya, Willow's absentee parents, Robin, a fully healed Rona and Vi, Clem, and Andrew who was bawling his eyes out. Fortunately, her worry appeared to be unwarranted. Everyone was too caught up in their own grief to give a damn about the somber faces sitting around them.

The Council's new head honcho had risen from his seat. A small frown settled over the petite blonde's fair features as Buffy observed the dignified man approach the podium and begin delivering an eloquent eulogy on behalf of the New Watchers Council. Patrick Carter, her mind supplied a beat later as she matched the face to the name. Although the veteran Slayer had had little contact with the bureaucratic side of the NWC, as her job description tended more toward field work and instruction, Buffy remembered the thirty-something Englishman well. They had met during the previous year's annual Christmas ball. Initially, Buffy had come up with the idea as a chance for the girls to cut loose and let their hair down. But as it turned out, the grownups had welcomed the reprieve just as eagerly. The blonde Slayer had been sharing a slow dance with Giles when Patrick had politely asked to cut in, clad in a sharp tuxedo and exuding charm and witty intelligence. Allowing herself a moment to revisit that happy memory, Buffy exhaled a relieved breath, reassured that the Council was in good hands.

Despite the fact that she probably had spent half of her life hanging out in cemeteries, the sunlit backdrop seemed almost foreign to the blonde Slayer. Somehow, the day made the grass greener, the white marble gravestones brighter, and the pervasive feel of death that much fainter. Surreal. Taking in a deep breath, Buffy detected the unmistakable musty odor of freshly-dug earth. She flinched, knowing what that particular scent meant. Lifting her gaze toward the blue, cloudless sky, Buffy absently noted the unseasonable warmth of the day. Overhead, the sun shined down on the funeral procession in glorified radiance, yet its warm rays failed to penetrate the blonde Slayer. Buffy decided then that she preferred the dark cover of night, with its unstill quiet and soft shadows, to this washed-out bleakness... because the day offered her no distraction, no shelter from the clarity of reality and the ecstasy of grief. Silently, tears began streaming steadily down her pale cheeks, searing her vision.

Viciously, Buffy wiped at her tear-stained cheeks as Rona and Vi took to the podium. Snippets of their impassioned, if highly-censured, testimonial and emotional anecdotes floated through the veteran Slayer's ears without any real recognition. At some point, Buffy thought she had heard mention of her own name. With a deep frown, she realized that the two young Sunnydale alums had just called her a hero. Unable to stop herself, Buffy let out a small cynical chortle, startling the nearby people and earning her quite a few reproachful glares that she failed to notice. She certainly did not feel like a hero. Burying those Potentials in her backyard, the blonde Slayer had felt something irreparable break inside of her. They hadn't been _just_ necessary sacrifices or casualties for her, despite Giles' teachings... it was as if her heart had died a little more each time another innocent's life was snuffed out by evil, evil that _she_ couldn't protect them from. They were _never_ just casualties in her mind. And now, Buffy Summers was burying her dead again.

It was all wrong. What kind of hero did it make her to be alive and well when only two of the fifty odd Slayers she had led into battle survived? I should be the one they're burying, said a small voice in the back of her head and Buffy silently nodded her assent. The service continued on as the blonde Slayer grew more disconnected to her surroundings with each new speaker. Everything became hazy and muffled. At a gentle tug on her arm, Buffy let Lorne pull her to her feet as they filed down the aisle with the throng of mourners down to the burial site. They were standing too far back to hear the priest's liturgy clearly, but Buffy wasn't bothered. It was something she had committed to memory a long time ago, ever since her own mother's funeral. "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him and give him peace. Amen," she whispered to herself. All of a sudden, Buffy was very glad that she was standing too far away to see the coffins being slowly lowered into the ground.

"Do you want to throw in the flowers now or should I?" Lorne inquired softly, gesturing to the large bouquet clutched in his hands, jolting the blonde out of her semi-catatonic state.

"Oh, um, just leave them with me, I guess."

"Sweetheart, the service has ended, there's no wake."

_Just like Mom's._ For the first time, she noticed that people were slowly but surely leaving. Woodenly, Buffy remained in her spot as her view of the freshly-filled gravesites became less and less hindered.

"I have to leave soon," the Empath Demon's apologetic voice floated to her after some time.

Buffy blinked herself back to reality with a start, realizing that they were now the only ones left in the cemetery under the waning sunlight. "Oh sorry, Lorne! I didn't mean to keep you here for so long," she babbled, glancing down to check her watch and frowning when she realized that it was still set to Pacific time.

"Don't worry, gorgeous. My flight's still in an hour," Lorne smiled down at her reassuringly.

"You should go, then."

"Are you sure, honey melon? I can always switch to a later flight, if you want," he offered, voice filled with concern.

"I'll be fine. Go, Lorne. I've taken up too much of your time already," Buffy replied.

"Are you sure? How are you going to get to the hotel?" the Empath Demon persisted.

"I'll call a cab," Buffy answered automatically.

"You don't have a new cell phone yet," Lorne pointed out.

Buffy sighed tiredly. "Fine, I'll walk then."

"But it's getting dark out."

"I'm a _Slayer_, Lorne, the thing that creatures of the night fear," she countered testily.

Lorne hesitated for several long minutes as Buffy grew steadily more annoyed. He had not gotten to know the Slayer extraordinaire very well in the past few days, but he couldn't help but feel a mixture of protectiveness and affection for the young woman. He supposed Buffy possessed an indescribable, intrinsic quality that he couldn't quite put into words. She drew people to her like moths to a flame and he was no exception.

"God, Lorne! You're like a freaking mother hen! Just go already!"

The Empath Demon smirked to himself, relieved to finally see the tiny blonde display some emotion that was neither sorrow nor hopelessness. "Okay, hon. Remember that if you ever need anything, you have my contact info, right?"

"Yes, Lorne," Buffy nodded, making a show of patting her coat pocket where she had stored his business card.

Abruptly, Buffy pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. Lorne looked shocked for a split-second before reciprocating the gesture wholeheartedly. He couldn't help but marvel at how small and frail the blonde Slayer felt in his arms as she spoke softly into his chest, "Thank you so much for everything. You don't know how much this has meant to me."

Lorne rubbed her back soothingly and kissed the crown of her golden head. "It was my pleasure, sweetness. You take care of yourself now."

With that, the tall Empath Demon handed her the bouquet of white orchids and stepped out of their embrace, walking away into the sunset. Sighing sadly, Buffy hugged the delicate flowers to her chest, walking slowly toward the row of freshly interred gravesites. Untying the ribbon that held together the bouquet, the blonde Slayer knelt down at the foot of the first headstone and placed a single orchid on the loose soil. Pulling herself onto her feet, she moved on to the next grave.

She didn't know how long she had been standing there, rooted to the spot, having lost track of the passage of time as she said her good-byes. All the blonde Slayer knew was that it was dark now, and she was once again staring down at her own tombstone. Right then, she felt her spidey sense go haywire. Someone extremely powerful was approaching, someone with a magical aura that would have dwarfed even Willow's at the mega Wicca's peak. What was more, the force felt pure to the blonde Slayer, not tainted by the possibility of corruption like Willow's had always been. Buffy stood her ground as the familiar waves of magical energy rolled over her in soothing waves that she had once fondly described to herself as 'warm fuzzies of the platonic variety'.

"I hoped you would come," she whispered softly, her calm voice betraying none of the pain that was tearing apart her heart.

"Sorry I'm late, my dear."

Albus Dumbledore sighed wearily. The Hogwarts Headmaster was truly sorry for his tardy arrival, even if he had hastened there as soon as he could, life permitting. Upon hearing the Slayer's empty, emotionless tone of voice, he felt even sorrier. He quickly came to the conclusion that whatever events had taken place were most definitely worse than Dawn's retransfiguration.

"How are you holding up, my dear?" he asked, bracing himself for her reply.

"Not so hot. But still alive and kicking." She paused for a long moment, pulling off her sunglasses and stuffing them into her coat pocket. "Unfortunately."

Dumbledore's bushy, silver eyebrows knitted together in concern. Three years he had known the veteran Slayer's delightful company—they were no more than the blink of an eye in comparison to his one-hundred and fifty odd years of existence. And yet, their every minute spent together had been ingrained in his memory like indelible ink. Like a breath of fresh air Buffy Summers had breezed into his world, utterly different from any creature he had ever met before—a welcome respite from his increasingly weighty duty and responsibility. "A vacation from reality" she had dubbed their little rendezvous. With a heavy heart, the Headmaster realized that he hadn't been there for her when she had needed him the most. He should have suspected that something was amiss when he sensed a disturbance in the magical balance seven days ago. How could I have been so heedless? Albus berated himself as he glanced at the row of new gravestones—until one epitaph caught his eye. Merlin's beard!

"Buffy! You died again!"

"Guess you didn't get the nice, pretty invitation then. Yep, and let me tell you that third time's definitely not the charm," she replied humorlessly at his sharp intake of breath.

It was not everyday that Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Supreme Mugwump was shocked by anything. Buffy Summers had managed this feat an embarrassing number of times already in their three short years of acquaintance. But tonight, Albus was flabbergasted. The petite blonde still had not turned around, so Albus obligingly stepped forward to regard her and was once again shocked into speechlessness. Buffy looked visibly younger, her figure healthier than he had ever seen it before and her face had lost its gaunt quality. However, it was seeing her eyes that made the wizened wizard gasp. Buffy's once luminous hazel irises looked all but dead now as they stared evenly at him in a mute, bloodshot shade of brown under the dim moonlight. Gone were the self-assured confidence and determined fire—the spark that had been uniquely her own.

Albus's heart went out to her. "Buffy—" he began, only to be brusquely cut off.

"It's Eliza now."

He blinked in confusion, "I beg your pardon?"

"It's Elizabeth Joyce Ashbery now."

Ever quick on the uptake, Albus swiftly responded, "Of course it is. That's a lovely name, dear," he assured.

Albus tentatively reached out, clasping her by the elbows and slowly pulling the diminutive blonde towards him. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realize he was holding when Buffy willingly stepped into his embrace, letting the warm fuzzies wash over her. For an interminable time, they stayed that way. Two lone figures could be seen clinging to each other in the darkened cemetery. If it weren't for the fact that the Council Headquarters was situated in that very city, they would have been rudely interrupted hours ago by ravenous vampire fledglings. But as it were, the duo remained undisturbed until Buffy reluctantly lifted her head from his chest and looked up at the Headmaster with grateful eyes.

Albus smiled benignly down at her, "Shall I escort you home, my dear?"

Ever the gentleman, Buffy thought. "Sure, I booked a hotel nearby but I kinda want to go back to my apartment in Rome."

"Not a problem."

Albus pulled out a wrapped lollipop from his robes as well as his wand. It was then that Buffy noticed his entire left hand was blackened and shriveled, as if the very flesh had been burnt away as he held the lollipop in his scorched palm. Normally, she would have been the first to inquire after such a serious injury, especially on such a close friend as Dumbledore. But Buffy had not the energy to care at the moment.

_"Portus." _

Buffy arched a finely shaped brow as the lollipop glowed bright blue momentarily. "Nifty."

"Touch your hand to this. Bibbity bobbity boo."

The Slayer hesitated for a moment before she grasped the stick of the lollipop and instantly felt a jerk behind her navel as the lollipop pulling them both away from the cemetery in a burst of whirling wind and color. Quite abruptly, she felt her feet hit hardwood flooring with jarring impact, only just managing to stay upright. As soon as the spell of disorientation faded, Buffy's eyes quickly darted around the darkened living room before she strode over to the doorway and flipped on the light switch. Relief flooded into her system as light bathed the familiar room. Everything was where she had left it weeks before. Running her fingers longingly over the soft leather of her couch, the blonde Slayer finally became aware of her long-suppressed fatigue. She wanted nothing more than to take refuge in the familiar comfort of her bed, surrounded by the soft silken feel of the sheets imprinted with the memory of him.

"It's late. You're welcome to stay in the guestroom or Dawn's old room. Take your pick," Buffy offered in a tired voice.

"The guestroom will be fine, my dear." Albus smiled warmly. He scrutinized the diminutive blonde as she nodded absently to his reply, trying in vain to read her mood. Shaking his head slightly, the Hogwarts Headmaster relented in his efforts. Even his keen perception was of no help as he stared down at the shell of the vivacious young warrior he had known and loved. He decided morosely that now was as good a time as any. "Before you go, will you reconsider joining me at Hogwarts? You need not answer right away."

Buffy was surprised by Dumbledore's request, yet she had somehow been expecting it all night long. It certainly wasn't the first time the benevolent Headmaster had posed the offer, but each time she had declined, no matter how tempted she was by the promise of anonymity and the allure of simple peace and quiet. There had been too many ties and complications anchoring Buffy to her world back then—but now? What was left? The school and whatever Angel had left her in his will—nothing she couldn't bear to be without.

Buffy Summers succeeded in shocking Albus Dumbledore an astounding third time that evening.

"Okay, Dumbledore, I'll go. I'll be packed and ready by noon."

She couldn't sleep once she had said goodnight to Dumbledore, closed the door to her familiar bedroom, and crawled underneath the bedclothes. The acute feel of the soft material against her skin evoked a torrent of memories lying just beneath the surface of her precarious resolve. Ripping off the bed sheets with undue violence, Buffy stalked over into the walk-in closet and slumped against the garment shelves. "No rest for the weary," she sighed as she pulled out several suitcases and began the methodical process of packing up all that physically remained of her life in Rome and enough weaponry to outfit a small army. By six o'clock in the morning, the blonde Slayer was busy brewing coffee for herself and tea for Dumbledore. Her suitcases were neatly lined up by the front door. The flurry of activity had helped to distract her mind from unbidden meanderings.

Albus strolled into the kitchen around 6:30 a.m., surprised once again, this time by Buffy's uncharacteristic early bird routine. "Eliza, haven't you always been a—what did you call it? Oh yes—a 'night owl'?" Albus frowned at the dark circles that marked the blonde's lower eyelids.

Buffy shrugged, "I couldn't sleep. It's no big."

The flippant tone was ruined by her refusal to meet his eyes. Dumbledore's frown deepened.

Trying to divert the elderly Headmaster's piercing gaze, Buffy quickly offered, "Would you like some tea? I always keep some of the good stuff around for Gi—" her mouth clamped shut at once as if she had uttered some choice swear words in front of her mother. She quickly poured Dumbledore a cup before turning away with preternatural speed to scrub some invisible grime off of the immaculate kitchen sink.

Albus mentally counted to five before venturing to speak. The atmosphere in the apartment felt tangibly strained.

"B—Eliza, dear. May I ask a question?"

Buffy turned around and forced a smile at Dumbledore. She was determined to prevent herself from having another emotional breakdown if it killed her. "You can ask, but I'm not sure I'll answer," she said honestly. There was no point lying to Dumbledore.

Blue eyes fell on hazel. "Why did you decide to change your name?" he asked. "Not that I've anything against Elizabeth," he added with a small grin, "it's just rather that I'd grown fond of Buffy Summers." He watched as Buffy's gaze looked past him out of the kitchen window and lost focus for an instant. When her gaze slid back up to meet his again, Albus was startled by the blankness he saw, her previous candor having slipped away.

"Because, I hated how everyone always made fun of it."

The Headmaster held her gaze for several long seconds, waiting, willing for her to say more, but she looked away instead. He counted to five again. "If you're all ready, we might as well leave now. This way we'll be able to catch breakfast. The house-elves prepare delightful eggs and sausage," he suggested, talking over and putting an arm around her lower back for support.

"Sure. How are we getting there? Pork knee again?"

Albus saw through the Slayer's thinly veiled sorrow at once, but felt obliged to go along with the charade for now. "Yes my dear, may I?" He gestured to a stack of paper napkins sitting on the kitchen counter.

"Knock yourself out."

"_Portus._ Quite generous of you, Eliza, if I do say so myself," he jested.

Buffy rolled her eyes as Dumbledore muttered a Latin word she didn't recognize to magically shrink her luggage. The blonde's jaw fell slack as her hefty suitcases were instantly miniaturized to the mere size of matchboxes. "Dumbledore, you _have_ to teach me that one sometime! Just imagine all the stakes I could stash away in my pockets!"

Albus's brilliant blue eyes danced as he replied sagely, "All in good time, my little grasshopper."

Despite the turn of events of the past few days, Buffy couldn't help but crack a real, albeit brief, grin at the elderly Headmaster's decidedly Muggle pop culture reference. Dumbledore tucked her miniaturized suitcases into his robes and they were off. The wizard and the Slayer materialized on a wide, cobblestone path leading to the main outer gate, which was comprised of a set of gigantic oak doors flanked on either side by pillars topped with statues of winged boars. At once, she was assaulted with a dizzying wave of magic so intense that it took her a few seconds become acclimated to it. Buffy managed to maintain her balance without any difficulty this time as she took in the sight of the colossal castle that would have put most of the other palaces and citadels she had toured throughout Europe to utter shame, easily exceeding even her wildest expectations.

Buffy could make out a breathtaking view of the Hogwarts castle situated atop a cliff above the outer curtain wall that ran as far as her eyes could see. The structure itself was huge, rambling, and quite scaring-looking, with a jumble of towers, turrets, and battlements. She got the distinct impression from the diverse combination of buildings of varying styles and architecture that the castle had been expanded and adjusted dramatically over the years as its student populations grew. Moreover, she surmised that the entire construction must have been held together by immensely powerful magic for the towers to be able to stay upright in their gravity-defying manner.

"Welcome to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he announced with a flourish and visible pride.

"_Very_ impressive. But where's the moat, Gandalf?" She quipped lightly, raising her eyebrows.

Dumbledore let out an amused chuckle before saying, "I'm afraid there isn't one anymore. The crocodiles had a nasty habit of gobbling up the children every once in a while, so the school board decided to do away from it centuries ago. However, there is a sizable lake to the south of the castle, which we'll see on our way."

The Headmaster's explanation was lost on the tiny blonde as her gaze fell upon the two huge, skeletal, winged horses with dragon-like faces and black leathery hides that were tethered to a black Rockaway carriage with side-hanging lanterns awaiting them at the foot of the main entrance gate. The veteran Slayer instinctively stretched out her senses, but the deformed horses failed to register on her demon radar. Weird. Curiosity got the best of her as Buffy neared the carriage with the Headmaster in the lead, "Um, what the frilly heck are those?"

Albus chuckled at Buffy's delightful diction. "Those are thestrals, my dear. Only those who have seen death first-hand can see them with unaided vision. They are incredible magical creatures with exceptional speed and sense of direction, and were once believed to be harbingers of ill fortune. Fortunately, that was disproved as superstition long before the present age."

"Did anyone tell you that sometimes you're like a scary walking textbook?" Buffy deadpanned.

Dumbledore chose to ignore her comment and instead petted the thestral closer to him. As Buffy approached, both animals turned abruptly to stare at her with their shining white eyes. The diminutive blonde stiffened momentarily but then thought better of it. However, as she strode over to Dumbledore, the two thestrals snorted and stamped their hoofs before lowering their snouts to nuzzle her. Buffy scrunched up her nose in exasperation at the unexpected friendly reception. Great! 'Death is my gift', of course the freaky horses would flock to me like vampires to blood... ew, icky metaphor. Just quit now while you're behind, she grumbled inwardly while tentatively running a hand through a thestral's smooth, sable mane, earning herself a pleased whinny for her efforts.

"Come on. We'd better get in," Albus interjected, interrupting the Slayer from her scattered train of thoughts as he climbed into the velvet-trimmed interior of the antique carriage.

Buffy slid open the beveled glass window pane on her side of the carriage as the thestrals pulled them at a leisurely canter along the path running around the glittering lake. Feeling the temperate wind whip past her face, the Slayer surveyed the edifice of her new residence as their carriage entered through the ivy-covered entrance of an underground inlet at the base of the cliff and onward up the hill to the front doors of the castle. At a wave of Dumbledore's wand, the double oak castle doors creaked open revealing a capacious, cavernous room lit by torchlight, with a ceiling so high that it was barely visible to the pair as they made their way inside. The blonde Slayer shifted her gaze as something shiny glimmered in her peripheral vision. Four giant hourglasses stood in a corner opposite them, each filled with a different colored pile of gemstones in its lower bulb. Buffy presumed the red ones were rubies; the blue, sapphires; the green, emeralds; and the yellow, citrines. Before she could ask him what they were for, the wizened wizard was already pulling her along the flagstone floor toward the open double doors to their right.

"This is the Great Hall," Albus introduced as they entered into a vast chamber lit by hundreds of suspended candles and flaming torches along the sidewalls. At the Headmaster's commendation, Buffy lifted her gaze upward and was promptly graced with a dazzling view the enchanted ceiling which exactly mirrored the outside sky. "Wow," she remarked a bit breathlessly as they walked up the center of the hall, two long wooden tables situated on either side, and approached the raised platform at the front on which sat another shorter table. "This is the High Table, my dear, where the faculty takes their meals," said the Headmaster as he took his spot in the regal-looking, high-backed, throne-like chair in the middle while Buffy settled herself in the chair to his right. Seeing as how they were still ten minutes early, Dumbledore turned towards Buffy, his voice tentative.

"Eliza, I'd like very much to give you a tour of the castle and grounds after breakfast. And perhaps, afterwards you'll grant me an account of what has transpired since our last meeting? Know that you are under no obligation to bare your soul to me, but please, my old heart can only take so much suspense."

Dumbledore looked so hopeful that Buffy caved almost immediately and gave him a curt nod.

"Would you like me to introduce you as Elizabeth Ashbery to the faculty, my dear?"

"Yeah. And you should probably tell them that I'm not a student or anything. I mean, I don't want a curfew or people getting overprotective and stuff."

"Yes, I suppose. Shall I inform them that you are a visiting family friend?"

"Yeah, that's pretty much the truth—except the family part."

"What of your age?"

"I'm not sure, but I don't think I can't pull off being twenty-six now. This sucks," Buffy pouted, the effect of which made her appear even younger.

Dumbledore grinned. "Seventeen, then? It's the legal adult age in the wizarding world," he suggested.

"Okay, I guess." She pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance. "God, I _can't_ believe I'm a freaking teenager again!"

Just then, a tiny little wizard with a shock of white hair, mustache, and beard joined them at the table.

"Ah, Filius. I'd like you to meet a dear family friend of mine who will be staying at Hogwarts for some time, Miss Elizabeth Ashbery. Filius Flitwick, Charms Professor, accomplished Dueling Champion, and Head of Ravenclaw House," Dumbledore introduced warmly.

And so the introductions went to each of the meager summer staff that included Flitwick, Sprout, Pomfrey, Pince, and Sinistra. Buffy thought they seemed nice enough, if a bit too curious as to why their Headmaster had brought an apparently Muggle, American girl to Hogwarts. Sighing softly to herself, the blonde Slayer tried her best to keep up polite conversation, craving instead only the Headmaster's company or the enfolding oblivion of solitude.


	4. The Other Enhancements

**Author's Note:** Kudos to my awesome betas Vkky and Katilwen! Review please! 

  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
Fatigue

Stupefy my heart to every day's monotony,  
Seal up my eyes, I would not look so far,  
Chasten my steps to peaceful regularity,  
Bow down my head lest I behold a star.  
Fill my days with work, a thousand calm necessities  
Leaving no moment to consecrate to hope,  
Girdle my thoughts within the dull circumferences  
Of facts which form the actual in one short hour's scope.

Give me dreamless sleep, and loose night's power over me,  
Shut my ears to sounds only tumultuous then,  
Bid Fancy slumber, and steal away its potency,  
Or Nature wakes and strives to live again.  
Let each day pass, well ordered in its usefulness,  
Unlit by sunshine, unscarred by storm;  
Dower me with strength and curb all foolish eagerness—  
The law exacts obedience. Instruct, I will conform.

Amy Lowell  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**-**

**04. The Other Enhancements**

**- **

After breakfast, Dumbledore ushered Buffy out of the Great Hall through a door behind the teachers' table to a small, connecting antechamber that was furnished with an unlit fireplace and several portraits. "How do you do this fine morning, Lady Violet?" the Headmaster paused his step to deliver a cordial greeting to the only portrait that seemed to be awake at the moment.

At this point, Buffy had snapped out of her stupor long enough to notice that Dumbledore was _talking_ to a _picture_ and moreover, the _picture_ was _talking back_.

"Very well, Headmaster," responded the wizened, pale old witch in the painting. "It's always a pleasure to see you." Her gaze shifted from the tall wizard to the young girl standing beside him. "And who is this lovely young lady?"

When Albus heard no forthcoming response from the Slayer, he placed a long finger underneath her chin and closed her mouth, biting back an amused chuckle.

"This is Miss Elizabeth Ashbery. She's a visiting family friend from America," the Headmaster obligingly informed. "You must excuse Eliza, I fear the awe-inspiring sights of the estate have rendered the poor girl speechless," he added in an audible aside.

Buffy resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at her companion, deeming it too juvenile of a gesture, even for someone of her outward appearance. Instead, the petite blonde poked him discreetly in the ribs as they stepped back into the Entrance Hall.

Chuckling merrily, the Headmaster led them across the chamber to a doorway guarded by two stone gargoyles on either side, who bowed low as Albus pushed open the heavy wooden door and motioned for Buffy to follow. "This is the Staff Room," he said as she glanced around the long paneled quarters that housed mismatched, dark wooden chairs placed around several tables, a large wardrobe, as well as some armchairs facing a large fireplace. "I advise you to enter this room only in the company of a staff member as the gargoyles will challenge any student who tries to knock on the door," he added as they left the chamber. "There's Argus's office. He's the resident Caretaker of the school, currently away on holiday. Not a favorite amongst the children though, possibly because the man wants to single-handedly reintroduce corporal punishment into our educational system," he shrugged, pointing to a gloomy-looking door to their left as the pair ascended the wide marble stairs onto the first floor.

"This floor is home to many classrooms, Muggle Studies, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and History of Magic to name a few. And there," Albus pointed to a door next to a small staircase as they turned down another corridor, "is Minnie's office. Minnie is the Deputy Headmistress, a highly gifted witch and long-time colleague. Also, the Transfiguration professor and Gryffindor Head of House."

Buffy had half a mind to ask Dumbledore what all the head of house business was about, but that thought was quickly forgotten as they traversed up the stairs to the second floor where the Headmaster ducked into a doorway clearly labeled 'Girls Lavatory—Out of Order'. A perplexed look settled over the blonde's features as she reached out a hand to halt the wizened wizard's stride. "Um, why are we going in there? And why are _you_ going in there?"

"Fret not, I'm not going to use the loo," he grinned, leading the charge inside.

Arching a finely shaped brow, Buffy trailed after him a beat later. Upon entering, the blonde Slayer decided that it was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom she had ever been in as her keen eyes surveyed the worn wooden cubicles and the row of chipped stone sinks under a rectangular cracked and spotted mirror. She watched curiously as Albus bent over to closely inspect each of the rusty copper taps until he stopped at one and beckoned her nearer.

"There, do you see the small engraving of a snake?" he asked.

Buffy nodded with a confused frown, "And?"

Shaking his head a little, the Headmaster regaled the veteran Slayer with the tale of the Chamber of Secrets from its inception to the defeat of the basilisk as they made their way past the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office and back up the marble staircase up to the third floor. By the end of his engrossing story, Buffy was almost disappointed that Albus wasn't a Parseltongue as she had decided that it would have made for an interesting detour.

Stopping in front of the statue of a one-eyed, humpbacked witch, the wizened wizard pulled out his wand, gave Buffy a wink, and tapped on the statue while whispering, _"Dissendium."_ At once, the witch's hump opened in a crack wide enough for a reasonably thin person to slip through. Grinning down at the surprised Slayer, Dumbledore tapped the statue with his wand again, closing the gap. "This is Gunhilda of Gorsemoor, or more importantly to certain more knowledgeable students, a secret passage out of the castle and into the neighboring town."

"This is _so_ not the traditional tour," Buffy muttered, rolling her eyes wryly.

"Of course not! I have the utmost respect for following the rules and deferring to the proper authorities."

"Uh huh," Buffy replied, appearing unconvinced, "that's why you had to crash at my place two years ago, because the 'proper authorities' wanted to give you a permanent walking tour of Alcatraz, right?"

"Azkaban, not Alcatraz, dear. And I assure you that incident was through no fault of my own," Dumbledore defended lamely and half in jest.

"That's what all the wanted fugitives say," she retorted in a teasing tone.

They ventured onward to the Trophy Room, then the Armor Gallery, and the Charms corridor before heading off to the next floor. After taking an extensive tour of the massive school library orated by Madam Pince, the pair ogled the opulent prefects' bathroom before Dumbledore took them down a narrow corridor leading to a single, unobtrusive, and rather ugly tapestry. Turning around to regard the young blonde, the Headmaster's voice abruptly turned somber. "Behind this tapestry lies a room housing the Mirror of Erised." At Buffy's puzzled expression, he explained further, "It is imbued with ancient magicks to show not one's face but his or her heart's deepest, most desperate desire. Would you like to see it?"

The Slayer thought on it for several long minutes before firmly shaking her head no. "Thanks, Dumbledore, but I think I'm better off not knowing for now."

The wizened wizard nodded in understanding. "That is a wise decision, my dear."

As the pair roamed through the fifth and sixth floors rather uneventfully, Buffy couldn't help but ask, "Dumbledore, have you ever looked into that Mirror of Aroused before?"

At that, Albus bent over in a fit of uproarious laughter that took him quite some time to recover from, while Buffy recovered from the ensuing embarrassment from her verbal slip. "Yes, I have. In fact, I had a look-see just last month, Eliza."

"What'd you see, if you don't mind me asking?"

"A pair of fur-lined bunny slippers."

"No way!" Buffy exclaimed, peering at the Headmaster incredulously.

Sighing softly to himself as they trekked up to the seventh floor, Albus lamented, "But alas, no one ever believes me."

Maneuvering through a series of corridors and hallways, they arrived at a large painting of a motherly-looking witch. "Top of the morning to you, Penny!" he greeted cheerfully.

"How do you do, Albus." The witch smiled warmly in return. "Oh my, could it be that I'm finally getting an occupant?" she inquired excitedly as her eyes caught sight of the slight blonde.

"Indeed, Penny! May I introduce to you Miss Eliza Ashbery, she's a dear friend of mine who will be staying here for quite some time."

"Nice to meet you," Buffy said politely. She still felt a bit odd about speaking to people in paintings—it just seemed unnatural.

"This is Madam Penelope Puddlemere, a former mediwitch to Hogwarts, and the entrance to your suite," Albus explained. "You'll need a password to enter, my dear."

What the heck. Do all wizards and witches have such weird names? It's like all alliteration all the time, Buffy mused before saying to the painting, "Flowering onion."

The painting swung open instantly, revealing to the pair a view of the spacious enclosure, which Buffy at once decided was very homey with an old world charm. They entered into a sitting room that housed a large fireplace facing a plush circular rug. To the left sat a set of three comfortable-looking couches with thick cushions placed around an antique coffee table. To the right of that was a large bay window, complete with a cushioned window seat.

"Dumbledore, this place is amazing!" she breathed.

"Only the best for my favorite girl," replied the Headmaster, his voice full of affection as he placed a hand on the small of her back to direct her attention. "There's more, Eliza."

Buffy looked in the direction of Dumbledore's gaze and walked as indicated into the connected bedroom. A large four-poster bed stood at the center. Off to the side was a dresser next to a capacious walk-in closet. A plush armchair and ottoman sat in a corner. The bedroom contained two doorways, one leading to a study with an empty wall to wall bookshelf and expansive desk and the other to a gorgeous bathroom suite complete with an enormous rectangular marble bathtub.

Buffy whirled on the tall, elderly wizard and hugged him graciously, then looked up into his face and muttered a heartfelt "Thank you."

Albus smiled. He took out her suitcases from inside his robes, placed them on the floor, and unshrunk them. Then, he beckoned, "There's one more room, actually. Come."

They filed back into the sitting room. Buffy watched attentively as Albus crossed over to the wall to the right of the fireplace and touched a stone level to his forehead that was slightly lighter in color than the rest. The stones below it moved apart piece by piece until a door-sized opening appeared. Buffy grinned in anticipation and fell into step after Dumbledore as he ducked inside. The enclosed space turned out to be a huge training room. Its entire floor was completely covered by a thick mat with various physical training equipment located in the corners of the room. Buffy gave Albus the first genuine smile he'd seen on her in the past two days, although it didn't quite reach her eyes. He showed her that the doorway could be operated by touching the same stone before leading her out.

"Thank you so much!" Buffy gushed.

"There's no need to thank me, my dear. Now shall we get on with the rest of the tour?"

"Definitely."

-

"Tell me what happened, my dear."

Buffy expelled a long, ragged breath. It was the moment she had been dreading all day. Lying sprawled on her back in a picturesque, green, sloping lawn beside the Headmaster, she threw an arm haphazardly over her eyes to shield them from the blinding glare of the afternoon sun. The day had been going so well in her opinion... in fact, she hadn't succumbed to the gut-wrenching anguish once thanks to the wizened wizard's engaging company. Pushing herself up to a sitting position, Buffy sighed again. The blonde Slayer mentally braced herself for what was to come, for she knew that Dumbledore deserved at least an explanation for aiding and abetting in her self-imposed exile. After several minutes of pregnant silence, she began in a quiet voice.

"After Dawn—you know—things were quiet for a while. Then one night, I was patrolling with Faith in Cleveland when a portal opened right in front of us. A man came out of it. He felt like pure evil." She sighed. "Faith attacked him without a second thought. She always was the impulsive one."

Buffy paused to gather her thoughts as Albus sat up as well.

"He was strong, as strong as Glory. Faith and I both got hurt pretty badly before the portal started to close. I ended up pushing myself in with him through the portal to save her."

She let out a shaky breath, her shoulders and back stiffened noticeably.

"Turns out he was a fallen angel. We landed back in his hell dimension, the one the Bible talks about, if you can believe it. It was—bad, really bad. Willow got me out, only a couple of hours later, technically speaking. But I was there for a lot longer. Forever, it seems."

Buffy's voice had dropped to a pained whisper at that, but her volume returned as she plowed onward.

"I had a hard time dealing after that, but Spike helped. He always knew how to take care of me. Soon after, we found a prophecy stating that Abaddon, a prince of Hell, would rise bearing the underworld's wrath during the next equinox. The other was just a lesser Hell demon, a scout for the main event set for a couple of months later. I had met Abaddon during my stay. He had been one of the uber big bads. We prepared as well as we could, but it wasn't enough. In the end we won, but most of us didn't make it, myself included. Then the Powers That Be cut me a deal, and now I'm back, again."

"How did Elizabeth Joyce Ashbery come about then?"

Buffy uprooted a handful of vibrantly green grass, watching idly as the loose blades drifted down to the ground from her outstretched fingers. "Lorne, I stayed with him for a couple of days before you came. His Wicca friend helped me change everything then, even made it look like my corpse was still rotting at the morgue."

Dumbledore studied her features intently. "Elizabeth, I presume comes from Dawn and Joyce from your mother, why Ashbery for the surname?"

"It was Spike's—"

Pressing her eyes tightly shut, the petite blonde clambered abruptly to her feet, wanting more than anything to get away from the comforting warmth of the sunlight, the too perfect scenery, and the benevolent Headmaster. I don't deserve to be here, she thought suddenly. I don't deserve to be alive. I'm unworthy. Buffy felt the air promptly swoosh around her, but dismissed it was a summer breeze. When she finally opened her eyes a few seconds later, she was standing back in the dark, dank recesses of the Hogwarts dungeon.

Albus Dumbledore blinked.

Blinked again.

Then, blinked a third time for good measure.

The Headmaster sprang swiftly to his feet as the fact that Buffy Summers had just _disapparated_ right in front of him sunk in to his brain. _In _Hogwarts! he amended a split-second later. Without any knowledge in apparition!

Before he could append to that frantic train of thought, a soft 'pop' sounded from the spot Buffy had vacated just seconds before. The blonde Slayer apparated three feet in front of him, her features displaying as much surprise as his must have shown at present.

"WHAT the hell just happened!" Buffy yelled, wide hazel eyes locking with his in dismay.

Albus was at a loss himself. That... was certainly unexpected. Fortunately, the wheels began turning almost immediately. He had known two other Vampire Slayers prior to his friendship with Buffy Summers and had learned first-hand that they were certainly _not_ immune to wizarding magic. Unless...

"Eliza, did you by chance acquire any new abilities in addition to the younger physical appearance?"

Buffy chewed on her lip thoughtfully. "I think Whistler said something about me getting enhancements," she supplied a beat later.

"Whistler?" Dumbledore prompted. Buffy had never alluded to that name in any of their previous conversations.

Her lips twisted into a dark scowl. "He's a Balance Demon working for the Powers. That jerk always manages to come around with his obnoxious self when I'm feeling most miserable." Then Buffy added as an afterthought, "_And_ he's one of the worst dressers I've ever seen."

I'll never understand the girl's obsession with fashion, Dumbledore thought to himself, shaking his head slightly. "I have a theory. Would you mind terribly if I attempted a few spells on you?"

Buffy shrugged apathetically. "As long as it's not maiming or dismemberment, I'm good. Or the hair, I happen to like the hair."

Dumbledore's mustache twitched in amusement. "I have absolutely no intention of bungling your lovely flaxen tresses, my dear," he assured her sincerely.

"Okay then," she nodded solemnly and stood still before him.

Albus deftly produced his wand from the inside of his robes and pointed it toward the blonde Slayer, chanting _Wingardium Leviosa_ in his mind.

Nothing. Intriguing.

"Dumbledore, what was that supposed to do?" Buffy inquired curiously.

"That was a levitation charm, my dear."

"Oh."

"Something a bit stronger, perhaps." _Stupefy._

Buffy frowned uncertainly as a jet of brilliant red energy blasted from the end of the Headmaster's wand and shot towards her, only to dissipate into nothingness as it hit her squarely in the chest.

_Incarcerous._

Thick ropes materialized out of thin air around the tiny blonde only to disappear as they attempted to wrap around her lithe form.

Albus grinned knowingly. "My dear, would you allow me to experiment on your blouse?"

Buffy's brow furrowed in confusion. "Um, okay, as long as you promise to change it back."

Her tank top transformed from black to white with a flick of his wand, then reverted back to its original color with another wave.

"Excellent, excellent. It appears, my dear, that you are now impervious to wand magic," Albus concluded enthusiastically, his bright blue eyes gleaming behind the half-moon spectacles.

Buffy was taken aback. Well, this is new. "I take it that it's a good thing?" she ventured.

"Naturally! This is a most extraordinary development," Dumbledore confirmed, eager to continue. "Now, onto the next matter: how did you manage to disapparate?"

"You mean that weird teleporting thing?" Buffy worried her bottom lip again. "I'm not sure, I didn't mean to do it. I just _really_ didn't wanna be here anymore. It's like one minute I'm here and the next I'm back in the ugly dungeon. Then, I was really shocked to end up there and wanted to ask you what happened. And before I knew it, I was back here again," she babbled.

Albus grinned and pulled a toothbrush out from his forget-me-not blue robes, holding it in the center of his flattened left palm.

"Eliza, I want you to try something, please," he gestured to the toothbrush. "Concentrate on the toothbrush, try to levitate it."

Buffy arched a fine brow at Dumbledore's odd request but quickly shrugged it off. She stared hard at the toothbrush in question for a good minute. He felt slightly disheartened when it failed to move.

"Try again, my dear. Picture it lifting upward in your mind. _Believe_ that you can."

Buffy sighed. She didn't understand why Dumbledore was making her do this. That appellation, or whatever was just a fluke. Magic is so Willow's gig. Her gaze flitted up to Dumbledore's face and she paused. He looked so incredibly hopeful that the effect was as compelling as Dawnie's puppy dog eyes. Buffy mentally refocused herself and tried again, seriously this time. She pictured the toothbrush floating a few inches above Dumbledore's hand. After a beat, the toothbrush gently rose in the air, stopping to hover half a foot over Dumbledore's hand, much to Buffy's baffled amazement.

Dumbledore appeared extremely pleased. "Another marvelous discovery! It appears that you are now a wandless witch."

"WHAT? I _can't_ be a witch! I distinctly recall you saying that Slayers _can't_ be witches." She stared at him in disbelief. Not only do the fucking PTB have to condemn me to life again but they just had to imbue me with more powers to do their grunt work, too! Ugh!

Albus plucked the still floating toothbrush out of the air and tucked it back into his robes along with his wand. "What do you call levitating the toothbrush then? It was certainly no cheap parlor trick, Eliza. And judging from your past experiences, I daresay that you just may be the exception to that rule," he explained calmly.

Great, now I'm even more of a freak of nature. A witchy Slayer. Who would've thought... Buffy massaged her temples dejectedly, unable to poke a hole through his logic. "Can you do wandless magic?"

"Very little, and it does not come easily."

"I see."

"You've be given a rare gift, Eliza, a gift that most of my kind would kill for. Don't throw it away no rashly," Albus entreated. "Look at where you're standing, my dear. What better place to master your new abilities than here?"

Buffy stared deeply into the wizened wizard's piercing blue eyes as she mulled over his advice. "Really?"

"Really, really."

"Okay, then. I'll do it," she nodded slowly, not exactly sure why she was agreeing.

Dumbledore looked as if his birthday and Christmas had just come early on that day.

-

Buffy sat in her comfy window seat with the bright August morning sun's warm rays radiating down on her through the expansive window panes, casting a golden glow to her already fair features. She was currently pouring over _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, her latest borrowed book from the Hogwarts school library. Apparently, Dumbledore was a freaking hero, a contemporary legend in the wizarding world. _H_e never told me about Grindelwald, Buffy grumbled to herself, after all the war stories I shared, too! Well, maybe he was just being humble. He sure doesn't look like a braggart, unlike a certain bleached vamp. 

The Slayer hastily cleared that last thought from her head. She had been doing well with the mourning and grieving by keeping a fabulously busy schedule, also known to the world at large as the avoidance and escapism method. Things were just fine and dandy as long as she didn't dwell on it too much or wax too maudlin or introspective. Buffy had only permitted herself to cry twice since the funeral ceremony, a feat she was particularly proud of. No stranger to dealing with death and loss, the veteran Slayer coped—not in the most accepted of ways, but she was coping nonetheless.

It had been five and one half weeks since she had moved into Hogwarts. The days flew by in a blur. Dumbledore spent as much time at the castle with her as he could spare (which was frankly, not very much at all). She always noticed that his mind seemed preoccupied, worried even. It was obvious to her that the Headmaster's priorities resided elsewhere. Buffy was fine with that, in fact, she understood perfectly. In the past, she had often conscientiously pushed her boyfriends, best friends, and even family aside whenever the need arose. It's the mission that matters, she thought wanly. Professor Dumbledore's visits had consisted of little more than dropping off obscure wandless magic texts and helping to hone her newfound powers. Much to the Slayer's surprise, her wandless magic studies were progressing at a breakneck pace despite the lack of constant guidance. Needless to say, Albus was pleased.

After they had perfected her apparition technique three days after her arrival, Dumbledore had insisted that she acquire an apparition license; something to do with penalties if she were ever caught without one. The London Ministry of Magic impressed even Buffy, she'd never seen so much gold in one place. The look on the intake wizard's face when she had informed him that she didn't have a wand to be weighed was priceless. That is, before Dumbledore fibbed she had broken her old wand and was just about to purchase a replacement. The test was simpler than the Slayer had envisioned. Now, Buffy Anne Summers was the proud owner of one apparition license, addressed to one Elizabeth Joyce Ashbery.

Besides wandless magic, Buffy had begun to self-study a handful of other subjects at the Headmaster's suggestion. She'd never imagined herself as the scholarly type before (except maybe for picking up Italian, and passable French and Spanish during her extensive travels in Europe), but magical knowledge was endlessly fascinating to the former 'problem student'. Buffy was already up to Fifth-year level reading in History of Magic, Ancient Runes, Herbology, Potions, Care of Magical Creatures, Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts with some help from the Hogwarts teaching staff.

Professor Sprout had been more than happy to show her the hands-on aspects of Herbology. Buffy thought it a shame that the other respective professors were away for the summer. She had decided to forego Divination, however, since her prophetic dreams and Slayer senses already worked well enough to her own liking. The librarian, Madam Pince, had been incredibly helpful in selecting appropriate reading materials. Buffy supposed that most students here probably weren't as avid about reading simply for the sake of learning as she was, and that Madam Pince must have been elated to finally be of such assistance. As it were, Buffy had busied herself during most of the daylight hours pouring over musty tomes. In her study, the wall-to-wall bookshelf was quickly filling up.

During the nights, Buffy had taken to patrolling the Forbidden Forest after Dumbledore granted his permission. She had encountered many interesting monsters as well as some creatures that she previously thought existed only in fairy tales. Cornish pixies, unicorns, and centaurs. Oh my! One centaur, in particular, had decided to befriend her, Firenze. And I used to think Angel was the king of cryptic. Buffy remembered them more at night, and was only too willing to vent her melancholy and rage on the more sinister inhabitants of the forest surrounding Hogwarts. Unfortunately, the Forbidden Forest was already beginning to run short on her potential prey.

After a great deal of pestering and pouting on her part, Dumbledore had begrudgingly acquiesced that she could apparate and disapparate whenever wherever she wanted just under two weeks ago. Buffy had been ecstatic, although she couldn't for the life of her figure out why Albus had been so reluctant. She had promptly proceeded to spend an entire frenzied week shopping to her heart's content in Paris, London, Madrid, and Milan, among other places with Angel's unexpectedly loaded Swiss savings accounts from his Wolfram and Hart stint. Now, she was the proud owner of dozens upon dozens of new haute couture outfits and a tantamount number of shoes and accessories. Sure, the petite blonde recognized the shopaholic kick for what it was, but it was still better than brooding. Buffy had also patrolled some of the aforementioned cities, taking care to apparate and disapparate from inside her room, as the Headmaster had warned her emphatically that not doing so would greatly upset the Hogwarts staff.

In the past weeks, she had gotten to know more of the faculty, meeting the newcomers as they dropped by. Buffy had obligingly answered their questions as much as possible without divulging her old identity. The blonde Slayer had developed an immediate fondness for the stern but kindhearted Professor McGonagall, one that was clearly reciprocal. She was the only one Buffy had confided her past to, apart from Dumbledore. For some reason Buffy knew Minnie, as the professor had been affectionately dubbed, could be trusted. On the other hand, the blonde Slayer had gotten the wiggins the instant she laid eyes on the Hogwarts Caretaker. Filch seemed little more than a nasty old man who was inexplicably bitter about the fact that she was allowed to meander around the school and grounds at all hours. Plus, his cat Mrs. Norris gave her the creeps as well.

Buffy bookmarked her page and stowed away the book for later, standing up and stretching languorously. "Today's the day," she announced quietly to herself. Tucking a slip of paper and her wallet into her jacket's pocket, Buffy donned a pair sunglasses, and disapparated.


	5. Quies Quietus

**Author's Note:** The place Buffy apparates to is Hyde Park/Kensington Gardens, which is one of the many Royal Parks located in London, UK. The song that is played is _I Saved the World Today_ by Eurythmics. Thanks very much to my betas Vkky and Katilwen! To all: please review! 

  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
We Wear the Mask

We wear the mask that grins and lies,   
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,   
This debt we pay to human guile;   
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,   
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be overwise,   
In counting all our tears and sighs?   
Nay, let them only see us, while   
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries   
To thee from tortured souls arise.   
We sing, but oh the clay is vile   
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;   
But let the world dream otherwise,   
We wear the mask!

Paul Laurence Dunbar   
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**-**

**05. Quies Quietus**

**- **

With a flux of air, the world came rushing up to meet the Slayer as her booted feet set down on softly packed soil. At once, Buffy experienced an acute loss of the constant buzz her body had become accustomed to from the Hogwarts' magic infused environ. The summer sun shone bright in a clear blue sky, warming her skin as she picked her way out of the magnificently green copse. Just as she'd remembered, the bronze statue of Peter Pan stood atop its circular platform, gleaming a rich russet under the brilliant sunshine, surrounded by several obvious tourists who failed to take notice of her abrupt emergence from the nearby woods. Buffy let her gaze flicker over the playful features carved onto the statue of the eternally youthful boy for a brief moment before she wryly shook her head. The grass is always greener on the other side, I suppose... Inhaling deeply the fresh morning air, the petite blonde began a leisurely stroll down the paved walkway.

Tucking her hands into the pockets of her light jacket, Buffy let the splendor of the breaking day wash over her, drinking in the sight of the world that she had saved over a dozen times over. It had never really occurred to her before to take the time to appreciate it before. And life goes on, she thought suddenly as two conversing joggers sprinted past her. The world keeps turning, and the people keep living their blissfully ignorant lives, never knowing the risks we took, the sacrifices we made. A young couple walked along the path from the opposite direction, the man pushing a baby stroller in front of them. For a moment, Buffy thought she was okay with that as the woman paused in her step to give the man a peck on the cheek which earned her a goofy grin in return. The blonde Slayer's lips involuntarily curled into a smile as she gazed down at their beautiful infant girl suckling on her pacifier, clad adorably in a paisley-print sundress. She had wanted so much to be able to hate them, hate the whole world. But she couldn't. Deep down, Buffy knew that she could have easily walked away at any point after Sunnydale, only she hadn't—although not from the lack of trying.

It was long after the sun had set that Buffy finally got up and found her way to the Grand Entrance. Raising a hand, the petite blonde hailed a cab and slid easily into the backseat as the last notes of a familiar-sounding tune played from the sound system.

"Evenin' miss," greeted the driver in a jovial Scottish accent. "Where to?"

Buffy slipped him the address she had written on a small piece of paper. "I'm not sure where exactly that is."

The cabbie's eyebrows soared upward as he glanced at the address. "Blimey, that's a posh part of town. It's only 'bout five minutes from here. Do you mind if I keep the music on, luv? I'm a stickler for oldies," he asked as another song began on the radio with a soft saxophone solo and swelling strings arrangement.

She flinched slightly at the familiar term of endearment. "No, I don't mind," she managed to mutter out the reply as a haunting female voice began the first verse of the strangely fitting lyrics.

_Monday finds you like a bomb / That's been left ticking there too long / You're bleeding_

Giles almost choked on his tea. Setting the cup and saucer hastily down on his desk, he asked, peering over his glasses at her in pleasant surprise, "You're being absolutely serious?"

"I am," she nodded in the affirmative.

"Good heavens, this comes as a bit of a shock after seeing hind nor tail of you for the better part of five months." He smiled widely. "Oh, what am I saying? We'd love to have you back, we've all missed you. But—" he asked, his tone wavering as he considered what she'd just intoned. "—what of your well-deserved rest, Buffy? Isn't it what you've always wanted? A chance at a normal life? To be just a girl again?"

Buffy wanted to laugh at that. A normal life—it was such a deceptively simple concept. She had been so happy after Sunnydale, euphoric even at finally being freed from her sacred duty, from the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders. With high spirits and even higher dreams, the veteran Slayer had taken her sister and jetset across Europe for the summer without a single destination or goal in mind save to taste true freedom for the first time in seven years. It hadn't taken long for them to fall in love with Rome. After enrolling Dawn in a prestigious art school, Buffy had then proceeded to live out the carefree existence in the following months that she'd only dreamed about during her teenage years. But amidst the whirlwind of days spent shopping, partying, and meeting new men, she had gradually found herself plagued by restlessness, boredom, and a growing, uncontainable feeling that something was missing in her new life. She felt as if something monumentally important was occurring around her, but she hadn't been a part of it.

_Some days there's nothing left to learn / From the point of no return / You're leaving _

"A normal life? God, I don't even know what that means anymore. I tried, Giles, I really did. I thought that if I could just focus on seeing Dawnie through school and reclaiming my misspent youth I'd finally be content, happy. But I was wrong. I can't will myself to be that shallow, California blonde cheerleader anymore. It was just a dream, Giles. A stupid, girly dream to keep me going all those years, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel—well, besides that gift of death anyway," she replied with an imperceptible shake of her head.

_Hey hey, I saved the world today / __Everybody's happy now / The bad thing's gone away_

Giles stared deeply into the Slayer's expressive hazel eyes as he mused over her confession. Exhaling a deep sigh, he picked up his cooling teacup by its narrow handle and rotated it in his hand absently. The Watcher remained silent for a long time before he spoke with a small frown pulling at his features. "You know, I still remember that night perfectly in my mind, and in particular something Spike had said to me."

Her gaze snapped back to him in shock. Those were two touchy topics that her former Watcher never broached in conversation with her, and she had suspected never would. Unconsciously, she straightened in her seat as he continued to speak with his eyes trained on the teacup in his hand.

"He surmised in so many words that you had surpassed me." Giles lifted his gaze upward to lock with hers with a raw intensity burning in his eyes. "You were right in what you had said," he began softly, setting down the cup once more as he tried to best decide how to articulate his many regrets. "I... I didn't have anything more to teach you, but I was too blinded by hurt and my own ego to recognize that at the time," he murmured, contrition carrying heavily in his voice. "And in the end, you saved us all in spite of our collective treason, and displayed an astounding level of maturity by never saying 'I told you so' when you were by all means entitled to it and more. I'm sorry that I doubted you, Buffy."

_ Everybody's happy now / The good thing's here to stay / __Please let it stay_

For a long moment, a thick silence settled between the Slayer and Watcher before the blonde shifted a little uncomfortably in her chair. She hadn't been expecting an apology from him, it's not like anyone else had ever made the effort. Certainly, no one had ever even apologized for ripping her out of Heaven two years before. "Giles, I—" she paused, sucking in a breath. The veteran Slayer had never told them that part of her reason for leaving was because she could never look them in the face the same way again. For a fleeting instant, she had even wanted to leave Dawnie behind with them, to cleave all her previous attachments in one fell swoop.

_Doo doo doo doo doo the good thing_

Because all she saw in their familiar visages were the bygone days of her youth and all she felt was the lingering sting of their careless betrayal, even if she had forgiven them all long ago. She had to try very hard to not divulge the fact that they had cut her deeper than any enemy's strike ever could. Seven years as the Vampire Slayer and she would have been broken at last by her own best friends and family if it hadn't been for Spike's heartbreaking speech in a stranger's expropriated house. Giles was right, Buffy never once told them 'I told you so' afterwards. It would have been all too easy to hurt them like they had hurt her. Instead, Buffy Summers had reverted to well rehearsed form; she hid her pain behind smiles and nods and plowed onward to what she did best: saving the world. And they never had a clue why her smile would sometimes falter.

_There's a million mouths to feed / And Ive got everything I need / I'm breathing__  
_

"Why are you saying this?"

_And there's a hurting thing inside_

"Because I can't justifiably employ you until I had that off my conscience," he answered slowly, a small tentative smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

_But I've got everything to hide_

"So, you'll hire me?"

_I'm grieving  
_

"Hire you?" Giles parroted incredulously. "Buffy, you're the longest living Slayer in five centuries and in my admittedly, slightly, biased opinion the greatest Vampire Slayer in all recorded history. Of course I'll hire you, I'd be bleeding insane not to."

And so, Buffy had thrown herself headfirst into a new life of the occasional world-saveage and fulltime task of training green, little girls, whom she hoped would never have to lead the kind of tortured existence she had. And she never once looked back. Much to her chagrin, the Slayer had arrived at the realization then that she could no longer abide her days without a purpose. Sighing wearily, she made her way down to the memorial playground and settled into an empty swing seat. So, what's my purpose now? Buffy asked herself dispassionately as she watched the day pass with shadowed eyes, surrounded by the tinkling laughter of young children and the idyllic backdrop of a world that would never know of her existence.

_Hey hey, I saved the world today / __Everybody's happy now  
_

"We're here," the cabbie announced as they pulled to a stop in front of a high-rise, modern apartment complex that was for a lack of a better word exactly as the driver had said: posh.

_The bad thing's gone away  
_

Climbing out from the backseat, Buffy barely heard the driver as she gaped at the extravagant edifice of Angel's condominium that she had unwittingly inherited.

"That'll be twelve pounds, miss."

_Everybody's happy now / The good thing's here to stay_

Pulling her wallet out from her purse, Buffy took out a twenty and handed it through the window to the cab driver. She turned back to stare at the building as the cab began to pull away from the curb. "Wait!" she called out suddenly, quickly catching up to the moving vehicle.

"Yeah, lass?" the cabbie asked, lowering his driver-side window once again.

_Please let it stay__  
_

She bit her lip as a wave of stricken panic crashed upon her. It was too soon. Besides, it's not like Angel's houses and apartments will up and disappear. She quirked an eyebrow in thought. Most likely not, anyway. "Can you take me to a nightclub instead?" Buffy asked after glancing down for a quick appraisal of her outfit and deciding that she was appropriately attired. "Preferably one of the non-sleazy variety?" she added.

_ Please let it stay_

"Sure thing, luv. I know a few places," he replied as she resettled into the backseat.

"Thanks." Buffy leaned back into the seat and expelled a ragged breath in relief. She wasn't ready, not yet at least.

_Let it stay_

-

The current song shifted seamlessly into another as Buffy lost herself to the intoxicating beat, undulating her slim hips sensually in time to the thumping rhythm. She shimmied and swayed as she felt fingers crawl possessively down her sides to cup her hipbones. Throwing her head back wantonly, Buffy ground against the cute British guy who was dancing behind her, allowing him to draw her backward while running her hands down the chest of the man facing her front. Buffy slid her body down his, throwing him a flirtatious grin when she heard a quickening of his breath in response. She was allowed to act like a slut if she wanted to. A sudden tingling at the nape of her neck interrupted the mental defense. Vampire. Sighing, she extricated herself from the arms of the two men she'd been dancing with. "Sorry, guys, I need some air," she shouted to be heard over the pounding percussion, disappearing into the pulsating crowd too fast to notice their disappointed expressions. 

Buffy caught the vampire's lecherous side-long glance as she slid into the adjacent bar stool. Leaning her elbows on the bar's counter, the petite blonde flipped her hair casually over her bare shoulder, exposing the side of her neck as she eyed the assortment of colorful bottles that were sitting on display in the mirrored shelves.

"Can I buy you a drink, sweet?" the vampire asked.

She turned in her seat to face him then, and found that the vampire was actually quite attractive, if she cared enough to look past his shortcoming of being a card-carrying member of the evil undead. She didn't. "Thanks, I'll have a double shot of tequila straight," she answered with a perky grin. After eleven years as an active Slayer, Buffy Summers had perfected the fine art of vamp baiting down to a tee. Always so predictable, she thought scathingly as the vampire ordered her drink with the barkeep.

"So, what's a pretty Yank girl like yourself doing in London?" he grinned, sweeping his gaze over her form.

Buffy shrugged lightly, "Not much. Just doing the tourist thing for the summer."

"Is that right? How are you liking the London scene?"

"That remains to be seen," she answered, arching a golden brow playfully.

The vampire chuckled in a rough laugh as her tequila came, taking another drink from his own beer bottle as she watched her tongue dart out of her mouth to lick the salt on the rim of her glass before downing the shot in one gulp.

"Buy you another one?" he asked as she sucked on her slice of lime.

"Okay, thanks! A whiskey then. But no more after that. Alcohol and I are nonmixy things," she pulled a face, playing up the dumb blonde act.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Buffy kept up her end of the inane small talk, breathing a sigh of relief when he finally asked her to dance. The veteran Slayer found the British vampire's seduction routine utterly unoriginal as he asked her after their fifth dance if she wanted to step outside for a spell to 'get some fresh air'. Instead of criticizing his complete lack of creativity, Buffy wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned bodily into him. "I thought you'd never ask," she purred seductively into his ear and had to try very hard to stop herself from cracking up at the subsequent eager puppy look that drifted across his handsome features.

Letting him lead her out of the back exit, Buffy found herself none-too-gently pressed up against an alley wall and one cold hand skimming up her side before wriggling underneath her top while the other cupped the curve of her ass. The vampire nipped her earlobe before kissing his way down to the nape of her neck. Hmm, not strictly dinner then? Briefly, she entertained the sadistic thought of letting him fuck her right then and there in the dingy alleyway and staking him just as he came. Pulling a disgusted face, she shoved aside the harebrained idea—the dust would have been a major problem. Mentally shrugging, Buffy kneed him hard in the groin without warning. Immediately, the vampire fell onto his back in agony. "You bloody bitch!" he yelped in surprise.

Buffy straddled him then, grinding down on him painfully and covering his groans with a hand over his mouth. She leaned down and whispered kittenishly into his ear, all the while pulling out a thin stake from the side of her boot, "I'm sorry, but I'm going by 'Skank' nowadays. 'Bloody bitch' was so last year. And I don't fuck vampires anymore. Plus, the whole bloodsucking thing? I've decided that it pretty much just plain sucks," she quipped lightly while sitting astride him, waiting for the vampire to retort back. All she received for her patience were more groans and a few feeble attempts to buck her off his person. Frowning slightly in disappointment at the complete lack of a fight, the blonde Slayer reared back her stake and thrust it into the vampire's chest in a flash of movement. Her knees hit the ground as dust littered the ground. With a disappointed pout, she quickly brushed off her pants before disappearing with a soft _pop_.

"Well, that was unfulfilling," Buffy remarked softly to herself as she touched down in the Forbidden Forest's inner woods. She inhaled deeply the subtle scents of the forest—pungent, moist earth; fauna and flora; and decay. There was magic in the Forbidden Forest that ran darker than those of the castle, she could almost feel it permeating her skin as she crept through the dense undergrowth, moving silent and deadly through the shrouded shadows and patches of light cast by a luminous full moon.

Before Buffy had been called, she had always categorized herself as a daytime and indoors kind of girl. Her former self had flourished inside the domain of sprawling shopping malls and the sunny expanses of Californian beaches. Now, she only felt truly alive under the infinite skies at night with the moon and stars hanging overhead. She supposed it was because with each death she dealt, she felt the Buffy Summers part of herself slip away just the tiniest amount and the Slayer take its place. Buffy wondered if given time, she would really become the emotionless killing machine the old Watchers Council had wanted her to be. She hoped she wouldn't live to see the day. She didn't hold the same concern for the new Slayers, however. In truth, she and Willow had changed more than the selectivity of the calling; they had altered the destiny of the Vampire Slayer. Buffy and Faith were the last vestiges of the old order, tragically fated to face the impossible task alone.

The new generation of girls had each other now. Slaying wasn't their life, it was their exciting and sometimes dangerous extracurricular activity. She wished that she could say the same about herself. You talk about slaying like it's a job. It's not. It's who you are. The veteran Slayer hadn't taken Kendra seriously when her Jamaican counterpart had told her that. But now, Buffy couldn't help but see the truth in her sister Slayer's words. She couldn't stop being the Slayer any more than Faith could, although for different reasons. And in the end, neither had used their seniority to delegate their responsibilities. Faith had admitted to her once that she still felt obligated to atone for her turn to the side of the bad guys all those years before. And herself? Truthfully, Buffy had forgotten how to _not_ be the Slayer, and when push came to shove, she didn't trust anyone else to get the job done.

Every once in a while Buffy would make out shapes moving deep in between the trees and hear the rustling of fallen leaves, but nothing slay-worthy, much to her disappointment. The pathetically lackluster staking at the club had left her brimming with manic energy and a need for physical release. Her ears suddenly picked up the thumping of distant hooves, they were approaching fast. Buffy ran towards the noise, branches whipped past her face as she flew in a blur toward her destination. She halted to a stop when she reached an opening deep into the forest. A team of majestic centaurs galloped past her, the wise and ageless stewards of the woodland realm. Whatever they're trying to get away from must be bad then, the Slayer reasoned as she recognized white-blonde haired, palomino centaur amongst them. "Firenze! What are you guys running from?" Buffy called out after him.

Firenze doubled back in haste upon hearing his new friend's voice. The centaur cantered to a stop in front of the small blonde Slayer, his piercing blue eyes appearing slightly worried as he gave a brief but formal bow in greeting. "My brethren and I are being pursued by a Hungarian Horntail. It is unnatural in these parts, highly dangerous. You must make haste, Miss Ashbery!"

A sudden gush of wind and dimming of the moonlight shining from above were the only warning signs Buffy received as a fifty-feet long black dragon touched down before them. The Slayer's eyes widened in amazement as they quickly took in the sight of its tough leathery hide, three-feet long claws, and a thick tail barbed with sharp spikes at the end. Wow, Angel and Spike weren't kidding about that dragon after all... she mused as the Horntail bellowed and swung its tail at Firenze. Snapping back to reality, Buffy instinctively shoved the centaur off to the side. It was a half-second too late for her to completely evade the vicious swipe. The spiked tail collided with Buffy, sending her tiny form flying back a good twenty feet before her back crashed into a tree trunk with a loud thud, all the wind being knocked out of her lungs upon impact.

Shaking her head slightly to clear the muted stars that were now clouding her vision, Buffy pulled out the dagger she had hidden inside her other boot. Focusing on the dagger intently, she watched as it elongated into a heavy broadsword before staggering unsteadily to her feet, ready to face the dragon when she noticed that Firenze was pacing protectively in front of her. Buffy clenched her jaw in mounting frustration. What? Is he stupid or something? Now's really not the best time to be playing the selfless hero! "Firenze, GET OUT OF HERE!" she snapped sharply.

Recognizing that the dragon was already regrouping for another strike, the veteran Slayer risked offending the noble creature by giving his hindquarters a forcible push, propelling Firenze toward the path to safety before dodging just in the nick of time to avoid the spiky tail that slammed onto the ground two feet off to her side, leaving a large indentation in the ground. Firenze finally raced away, shouting over his shoulder, "Use your gift, Ms. Ashbery!"

Before Buffy could ponder what the centaur had meant, the deadly tail came at her again. This time, she swiftly ducked under it and swung her sword at the exposed underbelly, but the sword simply glanced off the thick hide like a flimsy toothpick. Buffy wracked her brain frantically. Gift, gift... death? No... oh, DUH! She almost smacked herself. The petite blonde dropped the sword and pushed her right arm out toward the dragon, palm spread outward. The Horntail was instantly catapulted backward by an unseen force. The Hungarian Horntail roared menacingly in indignation as it beat its massive wings to launch into the air for an aerial assault, but could not for its life advance a single inch toward its target.

The Slayer was getting tired, she knew she would not be able to hold the spell for much longer. Think, think, think. A stunning spell maybe? No, it won't last... immobilizing spell? No, same diff. Buffy's right arm was beginning to become numb from the vast amount of blood loss she had sustained as well as from the strain from maintaining the exhausting spell. Shit, my arm is falling asleep. Sleep! That's it! Mustering all of her remaining strength, Buffy chanted firmly in her head while keeping her eyes trained evenly on the immobilized dragon, _Quies Quietus!_

The Horntail immediately sagged onto the ground with a grunt. Buffy exhaled a ragged breath and slumped forward, falling to her hands and knees. She looked down and appraised her appearance for the first time. The dragon had given her three deep, closely spaced, diagonal slashes. The first ran from just underneath her left breast to the other side of her ribcage. The second spanned the width of her stomach. The last began at the bottom of her left ribcage and ended just above her right hip bone. The blonde Slayer wouldn't have thought much of the injuries had the gashes not revealed pale slivers of the bare bone of her ribcage.

Buffy picked at the bloodied, tattered edges of her shirt. Ew, gross, much? Really wishing I had learned healing spells already, right about now. Oh well. Somehow, she found the reserve energy to climb to her feet once more. Picking up her fallen sword with much effort, the tiny blonde warily approached the supine dragon. Buffy nudged one of its thick arms with the tip of her broadsword and was satisfied when it didn't respond. Sighing, the blonde Slayer knew she no longer possessed the strength to apparate into the castle. Grimacing, she began the long trek back, not even caring to tread lightly this once. Glancing down at her wristwatch, Buffy saw to her relief that it was half past twelve o'clock. At least she wouldn't be seen. Who else would be crazy enough to be out in the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night?

-

Bending down, Severus Snape plucked another cluster of dull, dark green leaves from the flowering bush, tucking them into his pouch with great care to prevent bruising the precious plant that grew so rarely in the Scottish highlands that were home to Hogwarts. Harvesting nightshade had always been one of the trickier tasks involved in annually replenishing his ingredient stores. Collecting more low-lying leaves off of the bush, the Potions professor began making a mental list of all the inventory he had yet to obtain for the upcoming term. He had gotten down to valerian root when he heard light footfalls coming his way from the forest path and detected the coppery tang of blood scenting the air. Hastily tucking the pouch into his robes, Severus slunk into the shadows by the side of the path and waited with his hand tightly fisted around his wand. 

Seconds later, a short blonde girl appeared along the path, arms wrapped protectively around her abdomen as she struggled onward towards the castle. Severus's keen eyes narrowed as his gaze fell upon her bloodied hands. But is it her blood or something else's? mused the Potions professor as he deliberated on whether to make his presence known to the strange girl clothed in trendy Muggle fashions. Suddenly, it looked to Severus as if he would not have to make the decision after all as the young girl paused, twisting her head round in his direction with a frown pulling at her fair features. She was exceptionally pretty even by his captious standards, almost spritely, but what truly drew Severus's attention was the cold, predatory glint in her eyes as the girl advanced closer to his hiding place behind a dense thicket.

Electing that he might as well take advantage of the element of surprise while the option was still available to him, Severus leapt out from the bushes at the girl without warning, training his wand five inches above her heart. "_Who_ the bloody hell are you and _what_ are you doing here?" he questioned in a low, dangerous voice as the tip of his wand flared to cast the stranger's frame in sharp relief to their darkened surroundings. Much to his consternation and shock, the blonde girl simply rolled her eyes in response, appearing altogether unbothered by him and the wand he held at point-blank to her chest. "Same to you, buster," she retorted in an exasperated tone before promptly fainting.


	6. The Enigma

**Author's Note:** Thanks to my betas Vkky and Katilwen. This chapter rated R for the flashback content.  


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
My Foe

GURR! You cochon! Stand and fight!   
Show your mettle! Snarl and bite!   
Spawn of an accursed race,   
Turn and meet me face to face!   
Here amid the wreck and rout   
Let us grip and have it out!   
Here where ruins rock and reel   
Let us settle, steel to steel!   
...   
Ah, indeed! We well are met,   
Bayonet to bayonet.   
...   
Bah! You swine! I hate you so.   
Show you mercy? No! . . . and no! . . .

Robert W. Service

(abridged for purposes of this story)   
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**-**

**06. The Enigma**

**- **

Severus gaped, too stunned to catch her fall. Giving his head a good shake, he swiftly knelt down at her aside, checking her pulse and breathing to make certain that she was indeed lying unconscious and not merely attempting to fool him with a ploy. Smoothing back the tumble of blonde hair that was obscuring the girl's face, he took a closer look, realizing that she was older than he'd previously assumed—probably old enough to be a Sixth or Seventh-year if she were attending Hogwarts. And judging by her accent, she was most likely American. Shining his lit wand tip over her prone form, the Potions Master noticed three long, bloody slashes running across her middle that had been hidden from his view before by her arms, the red coloring of the flimsy bit of fabric masquerading as her shirt, and black jacket and pants. Gingerly, Severus lifted the tattered material of her blouse along the tears to find blood oozing steadily from the deep gashes which had left the surrounding skin angry and raw.

Realizing the gravity of her condition, Severus made up his mind to assist now and interrogate later. Tracing his wand above the first of the three slashes, he muttered a melodious incantation and then repeated it for the second and third wounds. For several moments, he stared at the broken skin, waiting intently for the magicks to take effect. The Potions professor's brow furrowed in consternation when he realized that the powerful healing spell was neither easing the blood flow nor knitting together the parted flesh. Frowning, Severus repeated the spell a fourth time, but was met with the same nonresponse. Sighing, he effortlessly conjured up a stretcher and attempted to levitate her body onto it. Except, she wouldn't budge. He tried again. Nothing. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. What brand of sorcery is this? Pointing his wand to the air, he attempted a simple charm. It worked perfectly. So, it is not the wand. Curious, very curious.

Resigning, Severus gently slid one arm under the girl's neck and another under her knees, easily lifting her slight, limp weight off from the ground and onto the stretcher. He detected a faint hint of alcohol lingering on her shallow breaths as he did so. Staring into the mystery girl's cherubic features, Severus silently enumerated all the questions that were pressing on his mind. 1. Who is she? 2. What was she doing in the Forbidden Forest? 3. How did she get into the forest in the first place? 4. How did she obtain her injuries? 5. Why didn't the magicks work on her? 6. And why hadn't she been the least bit intimidated by the confrontation? Frowning again in frustration, Severus decided that this was perhaps a mystery better suited for the cleverer Headmaster. With a practiced flick of his wand, the Potions professor hurried off towards the castle with the stretcher floating behind him in tow.

-

"Madam Pomfrey, I need your assistance," Snape called loudly while transferring the petite blonde's prone form from the stretcher onto the first available feather mattress in a long line of hospital beds. 

Within a minute, the school matron bustled into the large room from her private quarters at the other end, looking flustered and bleary-eyed in a pink nightgown and fuzzy slippers. She halted to a stop when she saw the face of the unconscious girl, which appeared uncharacteristically pale from the recent blood loss. "Oh dear! It's Miss Ashbery!"

"You _know_ this girl?" Severus inquired, his gaze snapping from the blonde to the mediwitch as indignation and annoyance instantly flared. Apparently, someone had deemed it proper to leave him out of the loop.

"Yes," she answered distractedly as she pulled out her wand, "Miss Ashbery is Albus's guest."

The mediwitch hastily cast a curing charm to stem the bleeding. A look of bewilderment flashed across her face when she saw that it had no apparent effect whatsoever. Attempting the charm once more, Madam Pomfrey's face fell as she was yet again rewarded with nothing for her efforts. Opting to switch tactics, the mediwitch rushed off to her office, returning with a tray that was almost toppling over with an assortment of bottles, salves, cotton balls, and gauze. Pulling off the topper of a small bottle, Madam Pomfrey soaked up some of purple liquid with a cotton ball and began dabbing the deep cuts with it. After a couple of seconds, she bristled in rising panic. "I—I don't understand. Why isn't the Wound-cleaning Potion smoking and cleansing the wounds like it should? Why won't she respond to the magicks!" she asked more to herself than Professor Snape, her shrill tone of voice indicating to the perceptive Potions professor that she was teetering precariously on the verge of hysteria.

"I encountered the same problem earlier when I had tried to heal her injuries myself. I had hoped it was just me. Wait here, while I fetch the Headmaster," said Severus, who had been watching the mediwitch work with a deep frown etched into his face.

"Yes, yes—" the mediwitch nodded uncertainly as Snape strode out of the Hospital Wing, black robes billowing. Corking the bottle of Wound-cleaning Potion, she stood in a daze, staring down worriedly at the motionless figure of the Headmaster's dear friend. The Hogwarts school matron had never felt so helpless in seeing to a patient before. Madam Pomfrey loathed the feeling.

-

"Jelly slugs." 

Severus dashed up the stone spiral steps, too impatient to wait for the slow lift upward by the moving staircase. "Albus! Albus!" he called, rapping on the brass knocker before opting to barge in without further ado.

The Headmaster trudged into his office wearing an obscenely bright, purple nightgown and matching nightcap just as Snape slipped through the doorway.

"What is it, Severus?" he asked in a tired voice, rubbing his eyes before pulling on his half-moon spectacles.

"A girl is injured," Snape answered, "a Miss Ashbery."

The Potions professor's words had the equal effect of splashing a bucket of icy water on the silver-haired wizard's person. Dumbledore's clear blue eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he was off and running for the infirmary without so much as a word or backward glance, leaving a nonplussed Potions professor to trail behind. They arrived to see Madam Pomfrey pacing frantically beside Buffy's bed.

Belatedly, the mediwitch registered their presence and turned to Dumbledore with pleading eyes, looking positively crestfallen and dangerously close to having a panic attack. "I can't heal her, Albus! I've tried with my wand, and the Blood Replenishing Potion, and salves, and everything I could possibly think of!" she half-shouted, flailing her arms wildly about.

The Headmaster's sharp gaze flitted to the immense pile of tubes and bottles cluttered on Buffy's bedside table from his position beside the petite blonde. "It's alright, Poppy. Just heal her the Muggle way," he calmly assured the mediwitch, giving her a gentle pat on the back for moral support.

To which Madam Pomfrey blinked, blankly.

Albus discreetly instructed while bending forward to closely inspect the Slayer's injuries, "Complementary medicine, just clean the wounds with Muggle antiseptic and stitch up the cuts. The rest should take care of itself. Ms. Ashbery has the great fortune of being an extraordinarily fast healer."

Madam Pomfrey's mouth opened to form a silent 'o' as her mind immediately called up the latent medical knowledge she had never had to practice on a patient before. With new determination settling on her face, Madam Pomfrey bustled off once again to return with another tray of sundry medical supplies and a pair of white cotton pajamas. Sliding the tray onto the crapped bedside table, the mediwitch started to tug down the blonde's jacket by the collar, but encountered understandable difficulty. Glancing up expectantly at the two wizards who were currently standing a little ways off, she demanded, "Well, don't just stand there like a pair of ninnies, help me change her already!"

At that, Dumbledore and Snape hurried to offer their assistance, although the latter did so with a pronounced scowl at having been ordered around so briskly. With their combined efforts, the light jacket was quickly removed, followed by the black leather ankle boots. Severus found himself becoming fast distracted as they eased off the form-fitting trousers to be replaced by the pajama pants. When they had gotten down to the red top, both wizards paused awkwardly. It was clear from the way the blouse was secured by a string at the neck and two more across the back that it didn't allow room for any undergarment. Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey saved them by clearing her throat quite obviously. "I think I can handle it from here, gentlemen," she said, pulling privacy screens around the bed after more or less pushing the pair out. "You can come see her in the morning," the mediwitch informed in a stern voice that insisted they should leave immediately and not show their faces until the designated hour.

Obediently, the Headmaster and Potions professor filed out into the corridor before the former prompted, "What happened tonight, Severus?"

Resisting the urge to scowl at his employer as Severus remembered that he hadn't been informed of the girl's presence, the Potions Master replied shortly, "I was merely harvesting nightshade in the Forbidden Forest when the girl came across the forest path. She fainted before we got a chance to speak."

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I see. Well, if that's all, I suggest we retire for the night and check on her in the morning." He made to leave.

Severus quickly stopped him. "Wait! Who is she, Headmaster? And why did you neglect to inform me of her stay at Hogwarts?" he asked in a slightly indignant tone.

Albus sighed. "Forgive me, Severus. I did not anticipate you two meeting so soon, seeing as you arrived at the castle well past tonight's dinner. Her name is Elizabeth Ashbery. The girl is a very dear friend of mine."

Snape stared at the Headmaster for a long moment. "But what was she doing out there in the forest?"

Albus' brilliant blue eyes twinkled under the light from Snape's lit wand tip. "Ah, it appears that you have discovered Miss Ashbery's night job. Well then, I best be off. Good night." With that, the wizened wizard retreated in the direction of his office, leaving a thoroughly confused Potions professor standing in his wake.

-

Severus woke a full hour earlier than usual. He had hardly slept the previous night as his mind kept drifting back to the mysterious blonde he had encountered in the Forbidden Forest. To make matters worse, the Headmaster had been vexingly vague in his explanation, per usual. What in Salathar's name did he mean by her 'night job'? Elizabeth Ashbery was a bloody enigma. One which the Potions Master fully intended to unravel as he made a beeline for the infirmary. 

-

Oh god. She was _there_ again.

Groaning, the Slayer slowly opened her eyes only to instantly squeeze them shut as she caught sight of the one standing before her. Her heart began hammering fearfully against her chest. She was lying on her side, her cheek pressed up against an luxuriously soft pillow. Buffy felt ice seep into her bloodstream as the waves of evil emanating from the being crashed upon her, poisoning the very air she breathed until Buffy felt as though she were suffocating from it. Whoever said Hell was a hot place had obviously never been there. Feeling the bile rise to her stomach, the blonde Slayer swallowed, tasting blood as she did. Buffy turned her head away as she felt the mattress dip under a weight at her side, ignoring that way her aching muscles screamed in protest at the small movement. She winced as a smooth hand caressed the side of her face. The contact burned like acid—acid that had been heated and mixed in with shards of broken glass. Without opening her eyes, the Slayer slowly curling her fingers into a fist and lifted them to strike out at him, even though her arms felt nothing more than two dead weights.

The tiny blonde began to thrash on the hospital bed as a soft moan escaped from her parted lips.

With a musical laugh and a careless wave of his hand, the prince of fallen archangels deflected her weak blows. "You do realize that your stubborn resistance only arouses me more?" he pronounced in a low, rich, lilting voice that would have driven mortal women to him in droves. His hand gripped her jaw hard enough to bruise, tilting it upward. "Didn't your mother teach you to always look at the person who's addressing to you?"

"You're not a person." The almost inaudible rasp tore from her bruised throat as Buffy snapped open her hazel eyes open to stare defiantly into the twin fires burning as his irises, eyes devoid of pupils.

"No," he laughed. "I am so much more," the Morning Star smirked as one hand easily secured both of hers above her head.

"You're nothing!" Buffy hissed with clenched teeth as his other hand slipped in between her inner thighs. "You can't even—" her voice transformed into a strangled groan as pleasure then consuming pain exploded through her system. Buffy bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. She had learned her lesson a long time ago; the Slayer wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She struggled weakly to wrest her wrists from his restraining grip as he lowered his mouth to her chest, his perfectly white canines elongating into fangs that slices two trails of gleaming red down her breast. Hot tears stung her eyes as she felt his hard, grainy tongue laved at the torn edges of her skin, drawing blood from the wounds painfully. "The blood o' a Slayer. Like ambrosia, it is," remarked a familiar voice that caused Buffy's heart to clench painfully in her chest.

"Always liked it rough, didn't you Slayer?" he leered at her wearing Spike's demonic visage, his lips and protruding fangs painted red with her blood.

"You're not him," she whispered, shutting her eyes tightly and shaking her head stubbornly from side to side as they were the only movements his restraints permitted.

"No—William the Bloody is not nearly good enough for you, sweetheart. Not for Daddy's little pumpkin!"

Buffy's hazel eyes involuntarily snapped open as his voice changed again. A ripple of fear and abject disgust traversed down the length of her spine as her gaze flitted up the face she hadn't glimpsed in years. "No!" she choked in agony and began struggling with increased fervor as he suddenly slammed himself into her with enough force for her to recognize that the scent of blood now tainting the air was her own.

This was too much. After everything she had endured over the past however many days, this was just sick. Perverse. She'd rather be tortured for days on end and killed. Again. Anything was better than this. Anything. Buffy wanted desperately to pass out, but the pain of his punishing assault was too acute. This was sacrilege. More than just an invasion of her body. The more the blonde Slayer thought about it, the more her eyes narrowed into hazel slits. At once, Buffy sensed a glowing ember of righteous anger she had been too numb to summon for ages. Focusing on that tiny flickering spark, she allowed it to coalesce with the essence of the Slayer within until it exploded into a raging inferno. An inhuman war cry erupted from the small blonde as Buffy viciously jerked her hands free and lashed out at the one wearing her father's face with a fevered savageness that she had never allowed herself to display before, uncaring of what she hit as long as she hit something...

-

Severus started as he heard an agonized scream sound from the Hospital Wing. Hastening his steps into a run, the Potions Master burst into the room just as Madam Pomfrey rushed out from her private quarters, obviously awakened by the racket. Pulling back the privacy screens that hid the girl's bed from view, the pair froze at the sight of the petite blonde thrashing wildly in her bed, silent tears streaming down her cheeks and a look of absolute horror and anguish contorting her fair features.

"Stay back," Snape barred the mediwitch's path with a restraining arm as she began to move closer to check on the girl. "We wouldn't want you to get hurt now," he added, tightening his hold as the school matron struggled to move forward despite his warning. "I think it would be prudent to notify the Headmaster." For a moment, Madam Pomfrey appeared positively indignant at being ordered around, her nostrils flared as she glared before relenting.

Severus approached the girl warily as the mediwitch raced away, careful to keep out of arms' reach. Elizabeth's thrashing gradually slowed. He frowned as he watched her upraised hands feebly attempting to push some invisible entity or assailant off her person. It was obvious to the Potions professor that this girl was suffering from some horrendous nightmare, or worse - a remembrance. Professor Snape was interrupted from his grim thoughts by the arrival of the Headmaster followed closely by Madam Pomfrey.

Dumbledore swiftly crossed over to the opposite side of her bed. As he leaned in to inspect the tiny blonde girl, her eyes suddenly snapped open wild and unseeing. In a blur of movement that lasted no more than a second, she had one hand enclosed around the Headmaster's neck and the other reared back in a ready fist. Eyes growing wide, Severus felt his heart pause at the spectacle before him. Madam Promfrey was similarly rooted to the spot. Albus emitted a choked cough as he tried in vain to pry the girl's fingers loose from his windpipe. The spell broken, Severus woke from of his daze and trained his wand at the girl before realizing with profound irritation that it was essentially useless against her, unless his genius plan was to poke the girl to death with it.

Recognition flooded back into Buffy's psyche as she realized with a start that she was looking into a pair of piercing blue irises, not the sinister burning red of her tormentor's. Abruptly, she flinched away from the gasping Headmaster, staggering backwards until her back pressed into the corner where two walls met. With a muffled sob, the petite blonde pressed her hands to her temples, trying to push herself farther into the corner as she slid down to the floor. Appearing unaware of anyone else in the Hospital Wing, Buffy drew her knees up against her chest as her body began to shake uncontrollably, her face hidden behind a curtain of golden hair.

It was Dumbledore who recovered from his shock first. "You can put away your wands now," he croaked out, turning toward the other two occupants in the room. Snape and Pomfrey did as they were instructed with great hesitation, Severus clearly more so. The Potions Master's mind was still reeling from witnessing the girl's violent outburst earlier. He certainly hadn't been expecting _that_. His hands twitched, ready to draw out his wand at a moment's notice as he observed the Headmaster cautiously approached the tiny blonde.

Crouching in front of the Slayer, Albus lowered his voice so that the other two would be unable to hear him. "It's alright, my dear. You're awake now, Buffy. It's alright," he whispered soothingly, albeit a little more hoarse than usual. Slowly, Buffy raised her head from her hands to peer at the wizened wizard through her hair as she firmly pushed back the awful memories. To Dumbledore's immense relief, the crazed glint left the blonde Slayer's hazel eyes within seconds as his words sunk in.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered as she caught sight of the angry, red handprints gracing the wizened wizard's neck that were already beginning to bruise.

"Oh, it's nothing, dear," Albus assured as he climbed to his feet and offered her a hand up. "I'm perfectly fine, in excellent health, even," the silver-haired wizard said lightly, but the effect was somewhat ruined when he fell into a fit of hacking coughs.

"Shall I get something for your—erm—throat?" inquired a nervous Madam Pomfrey.

At the Headmaster's affirmative nod, she all but ran out of the room.

Seeing the mediwitch's frightened reaction, Buffy felt even guiltier as Albus sat her down on the hospital bed she had apparently occupied the night before while he took a seat beside her.

"Are you alright, dear?" he asked, gently tilting her chin up to meet his gaze.

Buffy glanced back at him apologetically before starting to answer, but was interrupted as Madam Pomfrey bustled back in and handed Dumbledore a small vial filled with glowing pink liquid.

Dumbledore graciously accepted the vial, "Ta. That will be all, Poppy."

The mediwitch fled the room with unnerving speed, eager put some distance between herself and the volatile girl.

Dumbledore downed the potion in one draught, his voice at once stronger. "Now, where were we, Eliza?"

"Guess I scared her away huh? God, I'm really sorry, Dumbledore. I must be the worst guest ever. I bet none of the other ones have ever tried to throttle you to death before."

"As I said before, I'm perfectly fine, Eliza. It takes more than that to finish off this old fart," he deadpanned with a small grin. "So, desist from your incessant fretting and tell me instead what transpired yesterday evening."

Buffy smiled gratefully at the Headmaster as he tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ears with affection. "Oh—okay then. I was doing my usual patrol through the forest last night when—"

Severus's ears perked up. "Patrol? What's a little girl like you doing dillydallying in the Forbidden Forest at night? And so far past your bedtime?" Snape interjected.

Buffy and Dumbledore simultaneously whirled around to face the source of the deep, smooth yet biting drawl. It hearkened her to the image of black silk and was a voice she would have loved if it hadn't been so damn rude. Both had long forgotten there was still another present. The young blonde narrowed her eyes dangerously as they fell on the tall, thin, thirty-something wizard swathed in black. Everything on the offending man was monochromatic, from the sleek wizarding robes to the cold and empty eyes that stared at her with calculated intelligence to the shoulder-length hair that hung in limp, greasy clumps. His skin was so pallid that she would have thought him a vampire had there not been a distinct lack of tingles at the back of her neck. Her gaze settling on the scowl that was seemed to be permanently etched into his hard, sharp features, Buffy suddenly recalled him jumping in her way the night before. Annoyance flared up in her chest instantly as she realized that she had embarrassingly fainted in front of him.

"I am _not_ a little girl, Mr. Tall, Dark and Greasy. And I _never_ dillydally," she hissed in a low, dangerous voice.

The scowl was replaced by an altogether unpleasant sneer. No one had ever had the gall to speak to Professor Snape like that, not even the bigheaded Potter brat. Severus glowered at the petite blonde with a glare that would have peeled paint off of the walls and she glared right back in response.

Albus sensed an ensuing staring match and quickly broke in, "Oh dear, where are my manners? I believe introductions are in order. Eliza, this is Professor Severus Snape, the Potions Master at Hogwarts. Severus, this is Elizabeth Ashbery, my esteemed guest. Now, if you would please continue, Eliza."

Buffy eyed the wizard in question for another beat and then proceeded to pointedly ignore him. "_Anyway_, I was just walking along when I heard a hubbub. I ran toward it and found a group of centaurs fleeing from something. Firenze told me it was a Hungarian Horntail just as it caught up to us. I made Firenze leave and fought it—"

Severus scoffed incredulously at that. "Right, and we are to believe that someone like _you_ could actually take on a dragon of that severity?" he asked in a tone that clearly indicated he doubted she could take on a Cornish pixie, let alone a full-grown dragon.

"I can handle myself," Buffy stated evenly, fixing him a steely glare.

Snape gave the tiny teenager a contemptuous sweep from head-to-toe. "Is that so? Because from here, it looks as if a stiff breeze could topple you over," he commented snidely.

Buffy was overcome with a sudden urge to thrash the wizard. This Severe Snake guy was grating on her last nerve. She was _this_ close to kicking his uppity ass. But before she could throw out a nasty comeback, Dumbledore butted in again.

"Ah yes, Severus, but you of all people should know that appearances are deceiving," Albus quickly added, laying a restraining hand on the Slayer's forearm. "Go on, my dear," he urged.

Buffy glared at Mr. Cranky Pants for a few more seconds before continuing, "As I was saying before I was _rudely_ interrupted—"

Snape scowled crossly.

"—I fought it off for a while before hitting it with _Quies quietus_. I think it should still be out."

"Ah, yes, I believe your assumption is correct. That particular incantation is quite powerful. Well done, well done, my dear! And where did you leave this slumbering dragon?"

"I think we were in a clearing about a mile and a half northeast of the big willow tree that hits back."

Albus chuckled softly at her description of the Whomping Willow. "Excellent! Now, if you will excuse me, I must make immediate arrangements to have the Horntail shipped off to a colony. I'll pop by later. Eliza. Severus."

The Headmaster inclined his head towards the pair and slipped out before either could get another word in edgewise.

Severus pounced on Buffy as soon as Dumbledore was out of earshot. "Just what do you think you're playing at?" he growled, managing to cram more disdain into those words than she'd ever considered possible.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, irked by his hostile attitude.

"I believe you know full well, _Miss Ashbery_. Why do our magicks not affect you?" he asked, attempting to intimidate her with his superior height as he towered over her by a head.

"I'm just special, I guess," Buffy shrugged in feigned innocence.

Out of all the people she'd met thus far, Buffy certainly didn't feel obliged to explain herself to _him_. Staring up at his long, crooked nose, the Slayer idly wondered if it was crooked because other people had also wanted to punch the snarky bastard in the face and had logically went for the most obvious target over the years. She certainly hoped so.

The scowl returned with a vengeance. "The Headmaster has shown an unfortunate propensity of trusting unsavory characters in the past. However, _I_ won't be so easily fooled."

"Well, good for you," she retorted, her tone saccharine.

"I'll be watching you," Severus threatened before storming out, his black robes billowing behind him with a theatricality that made her wonder if the wizard possessed his own personal wind machine.

"I'm shaking in my stylish and expensive boots!" Buffy called after the Potions Master's retreating form. Pompous prick.


	7. A Maelstrom of Petals

**Author's Note:** Thanks again to Vkky and Katilwen for doing an impecccable job at beta-ing. This chapter is on a lighter note than the previous ones. Thought you guys might appreciate a little breather. The black knights always triumph! 

  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
I Am

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,   
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;   
I am the self-consumer of my woes,   
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,   
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;   
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost.

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,   
Into the living sea of waking dreams,   
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,   
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;   
And e'en the dearest—that I loved the best—  
Are strange—nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;   
A place where woman never smil'd or wept;   
There to abide with my creator, God,   
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:   
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;   
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.

John Clare   
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**-**

**07. A Maelstrom of Petals**

**- **

Buffy was pissed off, pissed off and bored.

It had been _two_ whole days since she woke up in the infirmary, and she was _still there!_ It was all that snarky Snake Professor's fault, too! If he hadn't been obstructing the forest path to conveniently escort her to the medical wing of unending stays, she'd be happily ensconced in her cozy bedroom suite right now—or become chow for a pack of wild dogs (or wild, freakishly large spiders in this case). But that was besides the point. Her gashes were little but light scars and fading fast. She was in perfect health really, but did Madam Pomfrey let her leave?

NO!

Instead, the mediwitch was now fluttering about checking up on the agitated blonde Slayer and clucking her tongue reproachfully every time Buffy so much as dared to move. The kindhearted school matron was starting to give her the mother of all migraines, not to mention how much she was irked by the sheer badness of having to stay in any place resembling a hospital. Finally, Madam Pomfrey left after imparting strict instructions to stay put and rest. Pfft. The veteran Slayer wasn't about to lie around like some invalid any longer.

Buffy had had enough. The blonde Slayer grabbed her mended clothes and changed, throwing aside the standard issue pajamas with a look of utter disdain. Quiet as a night thief, she slipped out to freedom.

-

Severus was miffed. 

It had been two days since he rescued Miss Elizabeth Ashbery from the Forbidden Forest, and he was still no closer to solving the mystery. Dumbledore was no help as usual. As for the girl herself, Snape thought her insolent as any good-for-nothing Gryffindor—more so. But there was something about her. Snape had sensed power—great power and darkness—radiating off her during her attack on the Headmaster as well as during their mini-spat. In addition to that, there was the obvious question of just how exactly she had managed to get the wizened wizard into a chokehold in the blink of an eye. Albus Dumbledore was certainly no weakling even for a wizard of his age.

Severus was determined to get to the bottom of it.

-

Albus was worried. 

It had been six weeks since he had invited Buffy to stay at Hogwarts, and he was still unsure if the change in scenery had done her any real good. His dear Slayer had exceeded all his expectations in her self-studies, the magicks appeared to come to her as easily as slaying. With each visit, Buffy had recovered more of her old personality, but his experienced eyes saw through the facade. Her eyes still held profound sadness and something more—he had glimpsed it in the crazed glint just as she awoke from her nightmare.

Then, there was the matter of the new term. Would Buffy elect to stay if he insisted? Should he even want her to stay when the Wizarding world was at open war?

There was so much that Dumbledore wanted her to tell him, but he would be patient. Albus would do his best to help her recuperate. The rest could wait.

-

Of course, Dumbledore just had to be considerate enough to exclude the Hospital Wing when he had given her the unofficial Hogwarts tour. And now, it was official. She was lost. Buffy wasn't even sure what floor she was on anymore. Sure, the coward's solution would have been to simply apparate to her suite on the sixth floor, but she was better than that. Vampire Slayers didn't get lost—well, not usually. And god damn it if she was going to resort to asking directions from some mojoed painting. Cursing up a storm in her head, the blonde Slayer ambled along another corridor that looked suspiciously familiar until she heard a laugh. 

Buffy whipped around her head at the offending noise with a withering glare that would have buried anything alive six feet under. But the thing was not alive. A gleaming suit of armor was cackling... _cackling_ at her! For a fleeting instant, Buffy entertained the notion that she had finally lost her tenuous grasp on sanity as the entire row of suits of armor lining the hallway began sniggering in unison at her plight. Brow furrowing, she rubbed her eyes and blinked furiously. They were still laughing, and if her eyes weren't deceiving her, some were pointing at her with their metallic gloved hands and guffawing even louder now.

The Slayer's eyes narrowed into twin hazel slits. "Just _what_ do you think you're laughing at!" she hissed, her hands coming to rest on her hips.

"You of course! You've been in this corridor three times within the past hour. Did somebody lose their way?" snickered the suit closest to her.

Not only was she lost and cranky, but now she was also apparently playing the laughing stock to a bunch of enchanted pieces of scrap metal. That was the last straw. Being made fun of did not a happy Slayer make. Heads were going to roll! _Helmets_ were going to roll! The consequences be damned. In a flash of movement, Buffy had withdrawn the dagger from her boot and enlarged it to the size of a nice broadsword, which she now wielded deftly in her hand. "Alright, you fellas wanna laugh some more?"

If anything, the suits of armor began whooping and howling even louder and some were bent over from the effort. One suit somewhere down the line crowed in between convulsive chortles, "What are you going to do with _that_, little girl?" it gestured to the sword held in her hand with incredulity. "Challenge us to a duel?"

His snooty remark left the blonde Slayer seething. "That's right! I'm gonna kick all of your rusty, metallic asses!" she retorted and lunged as the suits of armor shrieked in alarm, belatedly pulling out their own swords in defense.

-

Dumbledore found Buffy lying on her stomach by the side of the Great Lake, looking for all the world like the normal sunny California girl she wasn't. He gingerly lowered his aging body unto her colorful beach towel, allowing himself to enjoy the sunshine and warm weather. 

The Slayer propped up on her elbows to face the wizened wizard, closing the novel-sized tome she had been reading. The day was easily shaping up to be one of the best of her entire summer. Nothing got her blood going like a good rough and tumble, and putting the fear of god into those decidedly unchivalrous suits of armor had done just the trick. As if by a stroke of luck, she had found her way back up to the sixth floor almost immediately after the out-and-out brawl. Buffy felt a slight twinge of guilt as her mind flashed back to the scene of the piles of tangled metallic bodies lying scattered along the stone floor of the corridor, groaning and whimpering pathetically. Except, the utter ridiculousness of the situation prevented any true sense of remorse. Maybe they'll think Peeves the pesky poltergeist did it, Buffy thought hopefully.

"What on earth are you wearing?" the Headmaster asked, but the sparkle in his eyes told her he was only teasing.

"It's called a bikini, Mr. Snazzy Dress Wearer," she returned, arching a golden eyebrow at his midnight blue robes embroidered with moons and stars in challenge.

"Robes, my dear girl. Robes," Albus corrected on reflex. He was amazed that she still found wizarding robes highly amusing even after three years of acquaintance.

Buffy studied the Headmaster's face carefully from her vantage point, "Okay, you have 'something face'. What's the what, Gandalf?"

"Poppy has just kindly brought it to my attention that you snuck out prematurely from her care."

"Snuck out?" Buffy parroted back in feigned innocence. "Those are such strong words. My choice would've been 'took a stroll and couldn't find the way back' or 'had to get a breath of fresh air after being unjustly cooped up like a prisoner', something like that. She's not mad is she?"

Dumbledore chuckled good-naturedly. The girl had such a way with words. She really was such delightful company. "Oh, no. Poppy was simply beside herself with worry, but I managed to talk some sense into her."

"Oh, that's good, I guess," the petite blonde replied a little sheepishly.

"What's that you're reading?" the Headmaster inquired curiously as he picked up the small book sitting by her side. "_Death Omens: What To Do When You Know The Worst Is Coming_," he read the cover before letting out an amused chuckle. "I can't believe you're reading this rubbish!"

"Oh, it's just for fun. I'm using it as a reference for when I start writing _Deaths: What To Do When You Realize The Worst Is Already Here_," Buffy quipped with a wry smirk. "I think it's got _New York Times _bestseller potential."

At that, the Headmaster bubbled over with soft chuckles. "I assume you are aware that the new term commences tomorrow?" Dumbledore asked as soon as he'd caught his breath, gazing at the blonde Slayer with overflowing affection.

Buffy nodded. "Yeah, Minnie told me about a week ago."

"Will you continue your stay?" he inquired tentatively. "You know that I'd love nothing more than to have you here indefinitely, and I am certain Minerva feels the same way."

The Slayer sighed and laid her head down on her folded arms, relishing the way the brilliant rays of sunshine warmed her exposed skin and the gentle breeze carried the fragrant scent of wildflowers and fresh pine all around her. Shifting her gaze onto the glittering surface of the lake, Buffy caught sight of an enormous tentacle rising out of the rippling waters for a brief moment before it retreated back into the murky depths. The Hogwarts School of Magic was truly magical, the very air was buzzing with it. It was unsettling how content she felt within its ancient stone walls and battalions of protective wards. More and more, the veteran Slayer had been wondering when the other shoe would drop. But who was she to ruin a good thing?

"I want to stay."

Albus's lips curled into a relieved smile. "Splendid! Now then, how are your studies faring?"

"I'm almost done with the Sixth-year books."

"Excellent, I couldn't have planned it better myself," he grinned, his eyes gleaming with pride at her commendable progress. "I sincerely hope you will take this opportunity to attend some offered classes. I assure you that most of the subjects are not as dull as you would suspect."

Buffy quirked a brow at him. "Promise?"

"Pinky swear," he replied in a completely serious voice.

She giggled, cuffing the Headmaster _very_ lightly on the arm. "Okay, as long as I don't have to turn in any homework or papers."

"Of course you don't. That would be cruel and unusual punishment. Here," said Albus, handing her a wand which she took with a look of confusion.

"Rosewood, eleven inches, phoenix feather core. This used to belong to my mother."

"It's not my birthday but thanks?" Buffy frowned.

"I'm well aware of that, my dear," he grinned. "This is merely a part of your guise. It would appear awfully suspicious for a regular witch to be without one," he explained.

"Oh yeah... I'm secret identity girl again."

-

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat contentedly in their booth on the Hogwarts Express, bellies stuffed with chocolate and assorted sweets purchased from the snacks cart. 

"Hey Harry, do you know who's going to be the DADA professor this year?" Ron asked, patting his stretched stomach.

Harry grinned. He finally knew something non-Voldemort related that his two best friends did not. "Lupin's teaching again, he told me yesterday right before he left," Harry answered happily.

"Blimey, how did Dumbledore pull that off?" Ron asked.

"Well, with Fudge out of the picture, there couldn't have been nearly as much opposition. Thank Merlin!" Hermione reasoned.

Harry grinned again, "At least for our last year, we won't be getting any mysterious, potentially evil newcomers at Hogwarts."

Ron and Hermione answered in agreement.

-

"Dumbledore, why are you making me go to a _school staff_ meeting? It makes me feel all old and Giles-like," Buffy whined as they neared the Staff Room, her high heels clicking on the flagstone floor. 

"I merely thought you'd enjoy some mingling time with the staff, not all of us are geriatrics, mind you. Besides, I promise the meeting will be quite brief," Albus placated.

Rolling her eyes, Buffy entered the long paneled lounge after the Headmaster. She saw Professor McGonagall chatting with a very tall wizard with graying brown hair, amber eyes, and rather shabby robes. At once, the Slayer sensed something not altogether human about him, something familiar... _Werewolf._ She shrugged imperceptibly at the revelation and approached the pair.

"Hey Minnie, what's the up?" Buffy greeted.

The Transfiguration professor turned toward the blonde girl and glared disapprovingly, but the overall effect was ruined by a slight upward twitch of her lips. "Miss Ashbery, do please desist from calling me that once term begins," she requested.

"Nice to see you again, too," Buffy replied while moving to stand next to them.

Remus looked at the young blonde in surprise. Who is this, a new professor perhaps? But she's so young, he pondered and quickly held out his right hand.

"Remus Lupin, reinstated professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts. And you are?"

Buffy shook his hand and smiled, "Eliza Ashbery."

Remus was startled by her firm grip. Before she could say more, the Headmaster clapped his hands together to all the meeting to order.

"Welcome back everyone! I hope you have all put the summer hiatus to good use. Alas, another year begins. I have several announcements. First, I'm very pleased to have Remus back at his Defense Against the Dark Arts post and Severus as resident Potions Master, seeing as how Horace's resignation had put us at a shortage—"

Several faculty members clapped while most smiled or nodded approvingly. Buffy saw that only one person who seemed unhappy about this, Mr. Dour and Glower himself, who looked ready to murder at the drop of a pin and was at present nastily glaring daggers at anyone brave enough to glance in his direction.

"—Second, with the increasing threat, I have strengthened the protection spells and wards on the school. The Ministry has also been promised the backup of stationed Aurors in the event of any disturbances."

Buffy frowned, she was sure the 'threat' concerned Moldywart, the big bad dark wizard she had read about from _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and various newspaper archives she had skimmed. But puzzlingly enough, Albus hadn't mentioned anything about him or the war to her.

Just then, the door to the Staff Room banged open with a heavy thud. Buffy thought there was something oddly malicious about the way the scrawny, old wizard with stringy shoulder-length hair stood framed in the doorway before the cantankerous Caretaker swept in with a harassed scowl contorting his harsh features, followed closely behind by Mrs. Norris and a tired-looking Professor Flitwick.

The Headmaster paused, turning to offer a warm greeting to the latecomers. "Ah, Argus, Filius, so good of you to join us." At the Filch's sourer than usual expression, he inquired, "Is something wrong, gentlemen?"

"Some hoodlum's fouled up a whole dozen suits of armor on the third floor," wheezed the Caretaker. "It looked like a bloody war zone up there."

Crap. Buffy's eyes darted nervously around the room. The petite blonde expelled a relieved breath when she realized that no one was staring suspiciously at her. Note to self: reserve homicidal tendencies for strictly demons next time. Biting her lip, Buffy tried very hard to not appear guilty as charged.

"I've been assisting Argus in restoring the suits since morning," the Charms professor interjected helpfully. "Unfortunately, some of the sustained damages were fairly serious."

"What do you mean?" Minerva inquired curiously.

"Severed limbs, punctures through the torso, and some missing helmets. But, nothing that couldn't be fixed," replied Flitwick as he eased himself into an unoccupied dark, wooden chair.

"Was it Peeves?" Lupin asked, joining the conversation. "The students aren't due to arrive for another half hour."

At that, Filch's scowl grew even more prominent. "I don't bloody well know! The mangy suits were too scared to say anything. A fat load of help they were!"

"Calm yourself, Argus," Dumbledore soothed serenely. "I'm said everything on my agenda for the meeting. Why don't you show me the scene of the crime and I shall try my best to be of service?"

To Buffy's immense relief, Filch nodded and stalked out of the lounge after the Headmaster. A deep frown pulled at her lips as the veteran Slayer awaited the inevitable.

-

Harry chatted animatedly with Ron and Hermione as they made their way to the Gryffindor table. Sitting down, the black-haired Seventh-year spotted Lupin at the end of the faculty table and waved enthusiastically after catching his eye. Simultaneously, Ron and Hermione exclaimed, "Who's that girl?" 

Harry felt his breath catch as he glimpsed the girl in question. She sat in between Dumbledore and McGonagall's vacant chair, speaking with the wizened wizard. In contrast to the sea of black robes in the Great Hall, she wore a summery white tube dress and strappy sandals. Glossy blonde hair spilled down her bare shoulders and the golden skin on her slender form glowed. She was in a word: stunning.

Apparently, Ron was thinking the same thing. "Bloody hell, she's gorgeous!" he blurted out.

"Don't swear, Ron!" Hermione admonished automatically. For some reason, his comment had infuriated her. After critically eyeing the blonde girl for several lengthy seconds, Hermione conceded sourly, "I suppose she is rather pretty."

"Pretty! She's even better looking than Phlegm!" Ron exclaimed.

Hermione crossed her arms in exasperation, "Ronald Weasley, you are the shallowest boy I have ever had the displeasure of knowing!"

Ron shrugged dismissively and kept staring at the blonde, completely oblivious to Hermione's mounting jealousy. Harry couldn't help but smile at his two best friends' antics, Ron was really dense sometimes. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back on the unfamiliar blonde who was now howling with laughter along with the Headmaster. Wonder why she's dressed like a Muggle.

-

Buffy swallowed the large lump that had formed in her throat as the Headmaster took his seat beside her. "Um, Dumbledore? I have a confession to make," she whispered as discreetly as possible. 

The Headmaster turned to regard her, his clear blue eyes were swimming under the candlelight. "If this is about the—roughhousing incident," he leveled her a reproving glare.

"Yeah, about that, I'm sorry. You can kick me out now if you want," she said with a grimace, pausing briefly, she glanced at his impassive face as if mentally bracing herself for his imminent pronouncement of doom.

Albus stared levelly at the timid Slayer, his expression unreadable as Buffy turned away in embarrassment. Without warning, he burst out laughing in uncontained merriment, causing everyone at the staff table to turn in his direction. He covered his mouth with his good hand as Buffy shot him an annoyed glare. "Sorry," he croaked out before dissolving into another fit of guffaws, at which the Slayer rolled her eyes. Gradually, she became infected by his mirth and joined in the uproarious laughter until Professor McGonagall led the First-years to the front of the Great Hall to begin the Sorting Ceremony.

Still chuckling lightly, Dumbledore took a draught from his gem-encrusted, golden goblet and then grinned at his dear Slayer as the Sorting Hat began its annual song. "All's forgiven, my dear. I daresay the poor sods have been long overdue for a lesson in manners. Although, I'd expected your first victim to be Peeves, personally."

A smile slowly lifted the corners of Buffy's lips upward. "I'm still working on that." She raised an eyebrow at the wizened wizard, "You're really not mad at me for going postal?"

"Only in the dashing, mad genius sense of the word," he replied with a wink.

Buffy snorted in response.

All was well again as the Transfiguration professor returned to her seat.

Professor McGonagall inspected the young Slayer seated at her left closely, "How are you feeling, Eliza?"

Buffy grinned at the witch. "If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that, I'd be rich- er." At the witch's confused expression, Buffy clarified, "nickels are American Muggle money, kind of like Nuts and Gallons-"

"_Knuts_ and _Galleons_," Minerva corrected, gently shaking her head. The girl was entirely hopeless with new vocabulary, a category which unfortunately included almost all wizarding terminology and professors' names.

"Same diff," Buffy shrugged.

Minerva, deciding that she was fighting a losing battle, changed the subject. "Why are you not wearing robes?" she asked, eyeing Buffy's sparse dress in blatant disapproval.

"I have nothing that goes with them in the way of shoes," she answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Before Professor McGonagall could give the girl a proper lesson on appropriate school attire, Dumbledore clinked his fork on his goblet and proceeded to deliver his annual Start of Term Feast announcements. Buffy dutifully tuned out.

Buffy rummaged absently through another pair of jeans. Where was that damned lip gloss? Her fingers enclosed around something rectangular, brow furrowing she pulled her hand out.

The Zippo clattered noisily unto the floor.

For a seemingly endless minute, Buffy couldn't breathe. The walls of defense she had meticulously erected in the past few weeks instantly crashed down. She pivoted on her heel and ran blindly out of her room.

Minerva practically fell over as someone forcibly plowed past her, moving so fast that she only glimpsed a blur of blond hair. The Transfiguration professor deduced that it could only be Albus' young guest she had been introduced to several days ago. A worried Professor McGonagall moved quickly to follow the girl as she disappeared down the corridor.

The bright sunlight shown harsh and unforgiving, the vastness of the Great Lake and mountains stretched ad infinitum. For all the beauty around her, Buffy felt utterly alone. An oppressive weight pressed down from all directions. She felt so heavy.

Blood-curdling screams pierced the tranquil morning air. Minerva hastened her step.

The warm summer breeze caressed the weary Slayer in a mockery of a lover's embrace. In eleven long years of being the Chosen One, Buffy thought she had fully grasped that 'in the end the Slayer is always alone'. But she was wrong, because now she truly was.

She would never again see Giles cleaning his glasses, never hear Willow's breathless babble, never laugh at Xander's god awful pirate jokes, never spar with Faith when she visited Cleveland, never roll her eyes at Angel's brooding. She would never again feel Spike's strong arms wrapped around her, making the rest of the world fade away. Her soul felt like it was shattering.

The wind suddenly picked up, the wildflowers around her feet thrashed violently in the onslaught. Ominous storm clouds loomed out of nowhere, but Buffy was lost to the world. Minerva stopped to catch her breath in the doorway of the castle. Hundreds of yards away, knelt a lone figure caught in a violent maelstrom of petals. Professor McGonagall gathered the hem of her robes and ran as the sky released its ruthless deluge.

"WHY DID THEY HAVE TO DIE? HAVEN'T I SACRIFICED ENOUGH FOR YOU POWERS THAT FUCKING BE!" Buffy screamed to no one in particular, her voice muffled as thunder clapped and lightning flashed dangerously low.

Buffy climbed to her feet, the sharp pain from the pelting raindrops confirmed that she was regrettable still alive.

"Why couldn't I stay dead?" she finished in a defeated whisper.

Professor McGonagall was greatly distressed to catch Buffy's last words, surely the girl had not been dead, that's impossible! Maternal instinct suddenly kicking in, the normally stoic witch engulfed Buffy in an awkward hug. Buffy was surprised that she had let someone sneak up on her again, but found herself too drained to care. It felt good to not be alone, even if she were with a perfect stranger.

Minerva rubbed Buffy's back soothingly, "Shh, it'll be alright, child. It'll be alright."

Buffy pulled back quickly enough but gave the professor a grateful half-grin, even as she thought it would never be alright again. The Transfiguration Professor noted shrewdly that the storm abated at the exact same moment.

"May I suggest retiring to my office and perhaps a cup of hot cocoa?" Minerva offered, gracing the girl with an uncharacteristic smile.

"Minnie, can I sit in on your Seventh-Year class?" Buffy asked.

"Certainly! You are most welcome," Professor McGonagall answered, her delight evident.

"Even if I can't do wand magic?" she added tentatively.

"Don't worry about that, Eliza. The subject of Transfiguration entails mental concentration more so than wand work and pronunciation, and since Sixth and Seventh-Years are now learning to perform all spells nonverbally, you'll fit right in. In fact, it would make excellent exercise for focus with wandless magic. As long as you remember to point in the right direction, your classmates should be none the wiser," the Transfiguration professor explained.

"Very cool," Buffy gave her a rare smile and dug back into her dinner with more enthusiasm than before.

Minerva fondly watched the girl she had come to regard as a surrogate daughter in the past few weeks. The young Slayer had finally divulged her identity two weeks prior. Professor McGonagall had been floored by Buffy's incredible tale. After the admission, she had developed a fierce protectiveness over the battle-worn Slayer, whose life was in her opinion what nightmares were made of. The Gryffindor Head of House felt a twinge of disappointment at her decision to not enroll. She had secretly hoped that Buffy would be sorted into Gryffindor.

Sighing, she looked over the student tables and noticed an inordinate number of the male students furtively and not so furtively staring at the blonde Slayer, especially one Mr. Potter, Weasley, and Malfoy. She heaved another sigh.

It was going to be a long year.


	8. The Prince and the Trio

**Author's Note:** Thanks to my terrific betas! Please review! 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
The First Day

I wish I could remember the first day,   
First hour, first moment of your meeting me;   
If bright or dim the season, it might be   
Summer or winter for aught I can say.   
So unrecorded did it slip away,   
So blind was I to see and to foresee,   
So dull to mark the budding of my tree   
That would not blossom yet for many a May.  
If only I could recollect it! Such   
A day of days! I let it come and go   
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.   
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!   
If only now I could recall that touch,   
First touch of hand in hand! —Did one but know!

Christina Georgina Rossetti   
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**-**

**08. The Prince and the Trio**

**- **

Buffy slumped onto a chair in the very last row of the classroom in the freaking_ dungeon. _Depressing much? It was just her luck that one of the only 'no wand required' courses offered at Hogwarts was taught by Professor Doom and Gloom, who apparently had a penchant for promoting the illusion that he really was a vampire. That guy has it in for me, and also a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas, Buffy thought begrudgingly as she idly twirled a quill between her fingers. Unfortunately, the air drag created by the puffy feather prevented the expected smooth gliding motion. Frustrated by the utter uselessness of the wizarding world's choice of writing utensil, the blonde threw it down disdainfully on the dark, wooden table while feeling curious eyes boring into her from all directions. Not to mention that everyone is staring at me, what gives?

"This seat taken?" an arrogant male voice asked.

"Nope," she answered without bothering to look up, popping the 'p' as she tried unsuccessfully to give the quill twirling another go.

"You're American!" he exclaimed, making all the incoming and seated students' heads turn.

"Say that a little louder, I don't think the people upstairs heard you," Buffy snapped, annoyed.

The last thing the Slayer wanted was to draw more attention to herself. She finally looked at the young man sat down on the other chair at her table. He kind of reminded her of Spike for a split-second, if Spike were younger, lankier, had shrewd silver eyes instead of cerulean, and was—well, alive. However, the physical similarity stopped there. Upon closer inspection, Buffy would have bet her arm that this guy's sleek, white blonde hair color was au naturel. And while chiseled cheekbones had always been Spike's most prominent facial feature, that of the blonde standing before her was his pointed chin by a long shot. Unlike the rough Cockney accent her vampire had always spoken in, his was more refined—aristocratic, and the way the guy held himself bespoke of a strict, elitist upbringing. He's a hottie, Buffy decided as her gaze briefly settled on the badge pinned to his chest that was engraved with the letters: HB.

Draco regarded the blonde girl as with a raised platinum brow as his gaze swept over her small frame in a critical once-over. Hmm, interesting. Apparently, she was just as gorgeous up close as she had been from afar. Although, her unfortunate attribute of being a Yank was an unpleasant surprise, he couldn't help but still think her such a pretty little thing. The Prince of Slytherin even went so far as to consider overlooking her distasteful predilection for inferior Muggle fashions as well, as he took in her light cotton camisole and denim miniskirt. He had to admit that she still looked rather fetching. Not for the first time, Draco was glad that Pansy would not be starting the term until the second week of school. Taking out his books from his rucksack, the flaxen-haired Slytherin asked the first of a number of burning questions on his mind, "You're not a Mudblood, are you?"

"Uh, no," Buffy answered, a small crinkle appearing on her brow as she searched for the word in her memory only to come up with a blank. She didn't know what that meant exactly, but his condescending tone of voice made it sound like a disease, possibly the wizarding world's own form of leprosy by the way he spat it out like dirt.

"Good," the guy breathed, seemingly very relieved by her reply, and extended a large, pale hand. "Malfoy, Draco Malfoy," he introduced with much ceremony, as if waiting for her to fall at his feet just because he said his name.

Buffy shook it tentatively, not knowing if he was actually some kind of wizarding royalty or merely stuck up. "I see you've got the James Bond intro down—" she rolled her eyes at his subsequent blank expression. No one ever got her pop culture references anymore, except for Dumbledore, and that was only because he was really old and worldly. That thought saddened her for an instant. "Never mind. Anyways, you already know my name, but call me Eliza."

"What's she doing sitting with _Malfoy_?"

The blonde Slayer whipped round her head in the direction of the indignant voice. It came from a tall, gangly, redheaded teenager who walked into the classroom with a pretty, bushy-haired brunette girl and another tall young man, this one with round glasses and messy black hair. All three of them were sporting ties that were gold and maroon striped, unlike Draco's, which was striped with green and silver. Buffy caught a glimpse of a similar badge worn by the girl that said HG.

"Who are they?" she asked Draco curiously.

The Slytherin Head Boy turned his head to glance at the group in question with derision. "The Gryffindor Golden Trio," he answered with disgust as they settled in a table a few rows away.

Before he could elaborate, the classroom door slammed shut with a thundering bang as Professor Snape strode to the front of the room in a flurry of black robes. Those still standing quickly took to their seats. Severus paused behind his desk to survey the class with his scowl firmly in place, which turned into a full-blown glower as seen as his empty black eyes settled on the petite blonde. "Since we have a _guest_ in our midst today, I shall reiterate the rules." He shot Buffy a dark look which she responded with a sickeningly sweet smile.

"Probably because his is stuck up his ass," Buffy quipped through the corner of her mouth.

Draco barely bit back his snicker. He was beginning to really like this girl, even if she was invited by the meddlesome, Muggle-loving headmaster.

"There will be no silly wand waving or inane incantations. Potion-making is an exact science requiring patience and skill that unfortunately not all of you possess—"

Buffy noticed him giving the bespectacled black-haired student and his fellow redhead a pointed, venomous glare.

"—Be as it may, I expect your full, undivided attention for this NEWT level course, and do not _ever_ speak out of turn. Turn to page 43. We will be making the Gelid Freeze serum and antidote today."

-

Potions wasn't all that bad, Buffy decided. It was a lot like Chemistry lab, only smellier. It was one of the few classes she had actually enjoyed in high school, well, the handful number of times she bothered to show up anyway. Draco was being unexpectedly helpful, too. The smug Slytherin shared tips on how to handle the ingredients and when to add each specific component with his usual snideness, but the blonde Slayer found to her surprise that she found it oddly endearing after a while—it was either that, or the toxic fumes were getting to her. All in all, Buffy thought things were going great—except for the greasy haired professor breathing down her neck every five minutes. If she didn't know better, she would have thought the Potions professor was circling her like vulture just waiting to swoop down for the kill. 

Severus was annoyed. The idiot American girl didn't seem to be having any trouble at all with the complex potion. "Time's up!" he snarled, venting his frustrations on the undeserving class instead. "Test your serums on the azaleas at your desks." He watched contemptuously as Buffy squeezed a few drops of her serum onto the flower, which immediately turned blue with a sheet of frost. Draco then added a few drops of his antidote and the azalea sprang back to its previous state perfectly. Buffy grinned at Draco and fought back the urge to flip off the professor. Now even more irritated, Severus halted in front of Harry and Ron as their azalea froze only halfway and then crumpled into a withered heap after the antidote was applied.

"Another year, another dismal attempt, Misters Potter and Weasley. Ten points from Gryffindor!" he remarked with relish.

The bell rang.

Buffy quickly cleaned up her supplies and filed out with the other students.

"Ashbery, wait! What's your next class?" Draco asked as he hurriedly caught up to her.

Buffy pulled out her timetable from her bag. "Double History of Magic."

"Drat, I have Divination," Draco muttered in disappointment. Suddenly, a thought stuck him, "Would you like to join me for lunch?"

Buffy opened her mouth to refuse, but quickly changed her mind. At least less people would be staring at her if she were sitting in a more inconspicuous place, the Slayer reasoned. "Sure, why not."

Draco smirked, "Brilliant. I'll come find you after your class then," he called back as he headed off in the opposite direction.

-

Thanks to Dumbledore's rather comprehensive tour of the Hogwarts castle, Buffy located the History of Magic classroom with hardly any trouble. Attempting to be as unobstrusive as possible, she slumped into an empty seat in the back row again. Taking out a quill and roll of parchment, the petite blonde looked up just in time to see Professor Binns materialize through the large blackboard situated at the front of the classroom. Wow, a ghost professor, never had one of those before, she mused idly as the same bushy-haired girl took the other vacant chair at her table while her redheaded and raven-haired companions settled at the table directly in front of them. 

Buffy noticed the girl studying her critically for several seconds before seeming to reach a decision in an internal debate. The brunette had a palpable air of intelligence to her as well as an unmistakable feel of bookishness. "Hello, I'm Hermione Granger—" she held out her hand and gave a small smile, then inclined her head toward the two teenage boys who were looking back at her with curious interest, "—and that's Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley."

Buffy shook hands with Hermione before shifting her gaze to study the two boys sitting in front. She thought both were conventionally handsome, neither was her type. The redhead was clearly the cuter one in her opinion, and somehow, she suspected that he was the provider of comic relief in their trio. Turning to regard the messy, black-haired boy with impeccably green eyes, Buffy suddenly recalled his name. "As in 'The Boy Who Lived'?"

"Yeah," Harry admitted bitterly in a deep voice. To him, fame was a double-edged sword. Actually, it was just a sword period. There was nothing about celebrity that Harry appreciated.

Buffy picked up on his discomfiture at once. "Don't worry, I'm not another fan girl. And you're not the only one with scars," she quickly added in a conspirational tone.

Harry looked puzzled by her last statement.

The redhead leaned over the back of his chair and held out his hand. "Call me Ron," he grinned warmly.

Buffy shook his proffered hand and smiled back, "Only if you call me Eliza."

Ron's face flushed to a shade matching his vibrant hair before the bell conveniently rang.

-

Harry remained wide awake as Professor Binns droned on about the historical interaction between the race of centaurs and the Wizarding world. However, he certainly wasn't keeping up to pay attention to the boring lesson. Somehow, his gaze kept drifting onto Eliza—he couldn't take his eyes off of her. Harry suddenly felt a twinge of guilt nagging at his sides. Just two days ago, he was still entertaining absurd fantasies of how he and Ginny could still be together without Voldemort's ever-present threat hanging over their happiness. And now—and now he hadn't thought about Ginny all day, not since he'd glimpsed this mysterious blonde during the Start of Term Feast. Harry felt as though he should be sorry for the lapse, but he really wasn't. _She's even prettier up close_, he thought as he watched her doze lightly, chin propped up on one fist. 

Ron was similarly passed out, but in a much less graceful fashion. The red-haired Gryffindor's head was tilted far back as he sat slouched against his chair with a small pool of drool collecting in one corner of his slightly ajar mouth. For several times now, Harry had to fight down the urge to stick something in his best friend's mouth for kicks. Meanwhile, Hermione was busy jotting notes in between shooting reproachful glares at their two sleeping tablemates. At last, the bell rang. Buffy started immediately, but Ron had needed several pokes on his side from Harry to wake.

Hermione shouted at a bleary-eyed Ron as they began making their way down to the Great Hall for lunch, "You are completely incorrigible, Ron. Falling asleep in class on the _first_ day of school! What kind of example are you setting as Prefect?"

Ron, however, was decidedly unrepentant. "'Mione, you _know_ how dull History of Magic is! Bloody hell, it's worse than watching wet paint dry!"

"Don't swear, Ron!"

Buffy and Harry wisely hung back from the arguing couple.

"Are they always like this?" Buffy asked, arching a slim, golden brow in amusement. Their bickering reminded her a little of Xander and Cordelia—and those good old days when she was only dealing with monsters of the week and everything was still so simple and clear-cut.

"No," Harry shook his head wanly, "they're usually worse."

"I feel his pain, that was the most fun two hours I've had without actually having any for a while," Buffy said as they pushed open the doors to the Great Hall.

"Just be glad you didn't have to sit through six years of it, and that was only one and a half hours by the way," he replied.

"Well, it definitely seemed a _ whole_ lot longer. I thought I had stepped into a time warp again for a second," she intoned as they reached the Gryffindor table where Ron and Hermione were already seated and still quarrelling hotly.

Harry frowned slightly at her comment, but pushed it aside as another more pressing matter occurred to him. "Er—do you want to sit with us?" Harry asked awkwardly.

"Terribly sorry _Potty_, but she can't. Elizabeth has already agreed to have lunch with me," a cool voice drawled from behind them.

Buffy gazed apologetically at Harry. "Oh, yeah—I guess I'll see you later then. It was nice meeting you guys," she quickly said to him, as well as Ron and Hermione, who had stopped arguing to glare at Malfoy.

Draco smirked at Harry smugly as he draped an arm around Buffy's slender, bare shoulders. "C'mon. Best not to let this sorry lot rub off on you," he drawled and swiftly led her away.

Harry felt his stomach twist at the sight.

-

Draco patted the space next to him on the bench, eyeing Buffy expectantly. She cocked an eyebrow skeptically, but sat down as directed. He introduced the two thickset boys seated opposite them with imperious wave of his hand. "That's Crabbe," he gestured to the more mean-looking one, "and Goyle," the more gorilla-like one, who leered at her in response.

The Slayer rolled her eyes, "Your minions?"

"What gave that away? The vacant expressions or lumbering physiques?" he retorted and began filling his plate, not appearing to be bothered at all by her crack. Strangely, Crabbe and Goyle didn't so much as bristle at the jibe, either. Buffy guessed they must be too dense to catch on or hard on hearing, but her money was on the former.

"So, tell me about yourself."

Buffy sighed, scooping some salad onto her plate. Anonymity was never attainable for the 'new girl'. "Why do you want to know?" she returned guardedly.

"It's a small school. And it's not everyday that we get a Yank visitor. So, where are you from?" Inwardly, Draco was impressed. Being naturally suspicious was a classic Slytherin trait, after all.

Buffy let the question stew while she popped a grape tomato into her mouth, choosing her next words carefully as she chewed on it. Buffy had a sneaky suspicion that by the end of the day the details of this impromptu Q&A session would be all over the school judging by the way everyone at their table had been hanging on to every word.

"California."

"Why are you here at Hogwarts?"

"I was invited," she answered obviously.

Draco rolled his eyes at her evasiveness.

"How do you know Dumbledore?"

"Dumbledore knows everybody."

"How old are you?"

"Why Drake! Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's rude to ask a woman her age?" Buffy adopted a bad Southern bell accent in her reply.

Draco ignored her mispronunciation of his name, since he kind of liked how it sounded. It felt refreshing to finally meet his match in verbal jousting. Well, excluding Snape of course, seeing as the professor never directed the snark towards his favorite student.

"That's only if you're middle-aged or worse. And if that's the reason you're insulted, at least you appear to be extremely well preserved," he smirked, sweeping his gray eyes over her appreciatively for emphasis before cutting himself another bite of juicy rib-eye steak.

"Is that a compliment hidden within an insult?" She pulled a face. If only the guy knew how close to the truth his last sentence was, if she factored in the time she'd spent in Heaven and all the various hell dimensions into computing her age. "I'm seventeen."

"I'm also seventeen," he smirked.

"Wow, do you want a medal or something?" she returned with a patented eye-roll that would have made Dawn beam with pride, annoyed at being surrounded by a table full of indiscreet snoops.

The Prince of Slytherin scowled in increasing irritation. "Are you always this much of a right bitch, Ashbery?"

"Only when people are eavesdropping," Buffy responded pointedly, causing everyone else to suddenly look busy pretending not to listen. She smiled charmingly at Draco then.

"Sorry. They were really getting on my nerves."

"I suppose I can forgive you this once," Draco replied self-importantly.

The blonde Slayer resisted the urge to roll her eyes once again. Somehow, she always managed to attract the guys with big egos. It was as if she had a sign stamped on her forehead that flashed in giant, neon letters: Hey all you megalomaniacs, looking for a date? Try me! You know you want to!

"Why aren't you in school then?"

"You mean this isn't a school?" Buffy asked dryly.

Draco glared. She certainly was not making this easier. Snippy, little tart.

"You know what I mean, you silly bint. Why aren't you still in wizarding school?"

"I graduated already."

"From Salem Institute?"

Buffy decided then that he was getting too nosy for her own good. Better nip this in the bud. "Nope, from a really small one, you wouldn't have heard of it. Speaking of schools, Drake, what's the deal with the four different houses?"

Her ploy indeed distracted him. Draco frowned at her question, "Weren't you there for the Sorting Ceremony?"

"You mean that creepy, old, singing hat? I sort of zoned out," she shrugged, nonchalant.

"Well, with an attention span like that, you must have made a star pupil," he drawled snidely, watching for her reaction.

Buffy blinked a few times in response, unable to muster up annoyance at that insult. It's not like anyone had ever pegged her for an A student.

"Anyway, Hogwarts was created over a thousand years ago by four witches and wizards. The Sorting Hat places each student into one of the four houses named after the four founders. Generally, the best purebloods go to Slytherin, the smart alecks go to Ravenclaw, the wannabe heroes go to Gryffindor, and the remaining braindead rejects go to Hufflepuff."

Buffy made a noncommittal noise between bites.

Draco took a sip of his pumpkin juice, observing her table manners with a critical eye before deciding that the girl was most certainly not the product of an upper-class family. The Slytherin Head Boy was pretty certain that he could let that little snag slide as well, if she proved interesting enough. She had yet to disappoint. "So, anything else you're dying to know?"

"Yeah, actually, what's your problem with Harry Potter?"

Draco's expression turned sour at once, "You mean Saint Potter and his merry band of do-gooders? They're always sticking their bloody noses where they don't belong. Potter's the _famous_ ringleader, Granger's the annoying Mudblood know-it-all, and Weasley's the useless sidekick whose entire family fortune is worth about as much as two Sickles."

"Hmm." Buffy pushed the remains of her salad around the plate.

Draco gazed at her curiously, "What other classes are you taking?"

"Technically, I'm not taking any. But I'll probably sit in on Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, and Ancient Runes from time to time."

The bell rang.

Draco grabbed Buffy's hand and lifted it to his lips, brushing a soft kiss on her knuckles as they stood. She glanced up at him, genuinely surprised by the gentlemanly gesture.

"Thanks for joining me for lunch. You have my standing invitation anytime," he gave her a flirtatious smirk and released her hand.

"Thanks, Drake. I'll see you around," Buffy said, heading for the greenhouses.

Draco watched her retreating form, enjoying the view. Maybe this year won't be so dull after all.

-

For a course entirely about plants, Herbology with the Hufflepuffs had turned out to be surprisingly engrossing. During the single class period, Buffy had been befriended by an especially friendly girl who introduced herself as Susan Bones and a pompous boy named Ernie Macmillan, who seemed to be the model student. Before she knew it, the class had ended and it was time for Care of Magical Creatures. The blonde Slayer strolled down the quaint stone steps leading a slow descent along an idyllic hillside. Rubeus Hagrid, the professor and Gamekeeper of the school, was one of the few professors she hadn't met during the summer. Incidentally, he was also the only individual Dumbledore had divulged her Slayer status to, seeing as how she'd probably run into him at some point during her patrols in the Forbidden Forest. 

Buffy came upon a small, circular, wooden hut located at edge of the Forbidden Forest just as a huge, massive wizard stepped out of the front door, dressed in a huge moleskin overcoat. Scruffy was an understatement. He towered over the students who were already gathered round in several clusters, almost twice as tall as the average man. Most of his face was hidden behind a bushy mop of wildly tangled black hair and equally voluminous beard. The gigantic wizard also didn't feel completely human, but the warmth in his glittering, beetle-like, black eyes informed Buffy that he was not a threat.

"C'mon Seventh-yers, 'round the hut. I've got a treat fer yer firs' day o' class," the enormous wizard Buffy assumed to be Hagrid boomed in a West Country accent.

Buffy followed the others around the hut to a holding pen where a large, grubby-looking bear was pacing restlessly back and forth. Draco sidled up to her side with his trademark smirk, flanked behind by his two lumbering cronies.

"Wonder what the great oaf's prepared this time. Hope it's dangerous enough to get him sacked again," Draco whispered to Buffy, his hot breath tickling her ear and sending a small, involuntary shiver down the length of her spine.

Buffy frowned back at the Slytherin Head Boy for his blatant disrespect. Personally, she was all for flouting authority, but Hagrid looked like the poster-child for 'gentle giants'.

"Welcome back, class! This here creature's what we call a Blood-Suckin' Bugbear." Hagrid waved his meaty hands with flourish in the direction of the bear, a sunny smile lit up his face as he spoke.

Several loud gasps sounded from the group. Buffy turned to Draco in question and saw that his face had paled somewhat. Hagrid, however, continued on, appearing to be completely oblivious to his audience's sudden discomfiture.

"It's in their natures to be peaceful creatures 'less they sense fear. Now, don' let it see it scares yeh an' it won' attack," he instructed the anxious students as he unlocked the pen's gate. "Now, let's all go say hullo ter Bernard."

The students slowly filed into the pen apprehensively and stood huddled together, putting as much distance between themselves and the bear as possible.

"You _named_ the bugbear?" Draco asked Hagrid incredulously, his voice coming out slightly less smooth than usual as a look of unease settled across his face.

"O' course, Bernard the bugbear. Beau'iful, ain't he?" Hagrid answered, unfazed as he nodded his huge shaggy head. It was then that he noticed the small blonde standing at the Slytherin's side.

"Oh, I didn' see yeh there. Miss Ashbery, innit?" his eyes crinkled as he smiled. He walked to where she stood and held out his hand. Buffy grinned up at the Gamekeeper as his massive hand engulfed hers in a handshake that ended up tugging her entire arm. Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned toward the back of the crowd at the mention of her name, they hadn't expected to see the Headmaster's foreign guest again so soon.

"Please, call me Eliza."

"Hagrid's the name. It's a great honor to finally meet one o' yer kind. Thought yeh'd be bigger, though. Yer such a wee lass, really."

Buffy giggled. Somehow coming from him, the observation on her short stature didn't feel like the insult she usually hated. The blonde Slayer quickly decided that she liked him already. "I get that a lot," she admitted.

_**ROAR!**_

Buffy's head snapped in the direction of the noise, hazel eyes widening at the sight of Bernard rearing up on his hind legs and rounding on the tall redheaded boy she remembered as Ron, who was standing at the front of the throng. The petite blonde ran without a second thought and shoved him roughly to the side as a meaty paw lashed down upon them.


	9. Questions Abound

**Author's Note:** The star of Facies is associated with the sign of Capricorn in alignment with the sun and Mars. It is an astrologically unfortunate sign that portends to blindness, violent death, leadership, war, coldness, detachment, perfectionism, and earthquakes. 

A shout out to my betas: Vkky and Katilwen! Please, please, please leave feedback! I will be eternally grateful if you do! It makes the writing that much easier. Thanks!

  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
The Mysterious Visitor

Spirit, lovely guest, who are you?   
Whence have you flown down to us?   
Taciturn and without a sound   
Why have you abandoned us?   
Where are you? Where is your dwelling?   
What are you, where did you go?

Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky

(Abridged for the purposes of this story)   
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

-

**09. Questions Abound**

**- **

"Bernard! Stop!" Hagrid bellowed in rising dread, his legs failed to move as he stood frozen to the spot in shock.

Ron landed on top of Harry and Hermione in a tangled heap of limbs.

"Ouch!" "Ow!" "Sorry, sorry!"

The trio clambered to their feet in time to gape horrified as the bugbear reared up again, this time at the tiny American blonde.

Buffy resolutely stood her ground, her fiery undaunted gaze fixed on the towering bear. Bernard roared again but didn't move to attack. For several tense minutes, the two seemingly engaged in a staring contest. At last, Bernard dropped back down to all fours and crept unobtrusively into a corner, whimpering quietly.

It was then that Hagrid and the rest of the class snapped out of their daze. The worried wizard hurriedly checked Ron for any injury, immensely grateful when he found none, before stopping in front of the veteran Slayer.

"Yer hurt!" the half-giant cried out in alarm.

Buffy glanced down with a frown. Her right upper arm sported four angry gashes from which rivulets of blood liberally trickled down to drip off her fingertips. Funny, she hadn't even noticed the pain.

"I'm okay, Hagrid," she reassured the panicked professor in a disconcertingly calm voice. "It's just a scratch—I'll go have it checked out by Madam Pomfrey."

"Oh—righ' then," Hagrid blinked a couple of times, clearly at a loss for words. "Terribly sorry abou' this, lass. If I'da known—"

"It was an accident, Haggard. I'll be fine," Buffy quickly cut him off.

Hagrid and the rest of the class watched in bewilderment as the petite blonde ascended the stone steps as if her arm wasn't currently dripping a bloody trail behind her, unable to comprehend what they had just witnessed.

-

"I can't believe she did that! Bloody hell, she just stared that bugbear down like it was nothing but a puffstein! Eliza's my new hero!" Ron gushed, excitedly juggling a precariously balanced stack of chocolate frogs with the beginnings of what looked suspiciously like hero-worship sparkling in his eyes. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "And I _knew_ that taking Care of Magical Creatures again would be a bad idea! In what other class would you ever almost get killed on the first day!"

"Don't swear!" Hermione snapped, per usual. She ignored Ron's complaint about Hagrid's uncommon standard of classroom safety, since she had been the one to suggest their return to the subject.

"That was pretty brilliant," Harry chimed in. "And the way she acted about her wounds, like they didn't even hurt."

The more he thought about it, the more impressed the black-haired Gryffindor became. Recalling how badly Professor Umbitch's quill had hurt, he couldn't help but be deeply impressed by Eliza's apparent high tolerance for pain. Most of the Hogwarts girls he knew would have come away shrieking and wailing hysterically had they been in her shoes... most of the guys, too. As yet, Eliza hadn't so much as whimpered. It was all very strange and unsettling.

Hermione skidded to a sudden stop as something suddenly occurred to her. "Did you guys hear what Hagrid said to Eliza?"

"Was too busy looking at the bugbear to notice," Ron intoned lightly.

"Cowering, more like," Hermione grumbled under her breath. What's so great about tiny blondes anyway? I don't see what could possibly be so appealing about looking like a Barbie.

Harry frowned in consideration, "I think Hagrid said something about finally meeting one of 'her kind'... what did he mean by that?"

Hermione shook her head as her brow furrowed. "I don't know, but I'd bet ten Galleons that he didn't mean Americans. Hagrid also said he thought she'd be bigger. Why would he say something like that?"

"Well, she is rather short," Harry shrugged in dismissal, thinking nothing of it.

Ron dragged Hermione forward by the arm, becoming impatient. "C'mon, let's just thank the girl and worry about all that other stuff later."

They found the petite blonde sitting on a hospital bed, munching merrily on a chunk of chocolate no doubt issued by the resident mediwitch.

Ron held out the stack of chocolates awkwardly, "Er, these are for you... for saving my life earlier."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Ron! Stop being so melodramatic," Hermione scolded.

Buffy set down her piece of chocolate on her bedside nightstand to accept the handful of even larger pieces of chocolate. "She's right," she said to the redheaded wizard, "the sitch was hardly dire."

'Sitch'? Ron mentally questioned, but plowed on ahead anyway. "Well, you still saved my arse. I mean, you didn't have to push me out of the way back there," he gushed, a look of pure adoration shining in his face.

Buffy replied in a nonchalant manner, as if saving young wizards from murderous bugbears were an everyday activity of hers. "It was nothing. But thanks for the yummy chocolates! You sure know the way to a girl's heart!"

It was the truth. Chocolate had always been her tragic flaw. The veteran Slayer was very happy that her enemies had never caught on to this fact and devised to use it as a diversionary tactic, or else the world would have been in big trouble.

Ron felt himself flushing hotly at her comment; he looked desperately to Harry for help.

"How's your arm, Eliza?" Harry quickly asked. Her gashes had looked rather nasty. He could certainly commiserate, what with his own extensive history of injuries from Quidditch... and worse.

"Good as new," she answered, absently fingering the offending bandages.

"Eep!" She started as the chocolate frog from the cardboard container she'd just peeled open hopped out in a great, bounding leap.

Harry snatched the magically animated frog while it was still airborne with his Seeker reflexes. Grinning at Eliza's stunned reaction, he handed it back. "Don't worry. I had a bit of shock the first time around, too." His fingers tingled where they touched hers, causing his cheeks to tinge as well.

Hermione rolled her eyes at her two best friends. Boys, show them a pretty face and they all turn into blubbering idiots, she thought sullenly.

Buffy stared at the frog-shaped piece of chocolate now struggling weakly in her hand, wide-eyed. "Wow, candy that moves—this is new—and kinda gross," she muttered.

Ron, having recovered from his flushing episode, now looked positively scandalized. "You've _never_ eaten a Chocolate Frog before?"

"Nope." The tiny blonde wrinkled her nose daintily. "I strictly kept to food of the inanimate variety up until now."

"So you're a Muggle-born, then?" Hermione finally joined the conversation, curiosity getting the best of her.

"Um, I grew up Muggle," Buffy answered uncertainly.

"So did Harry and I," the Gryffindor Head Girl shared. She surveyed the girl closely, "How did you know how to handle Bernard, anyway?"

Buffy shifted slightly on the hospital bed. It's official, she thought wryly, Hogwarts is nosy-parker central. "Well, Hagrid said bugbears feed off of fear. So I figured that if I put up a brave front, it would back off. I was really lucky it worked."

It was only half a lie. The truth was, for a split-second she had wanted the bugbear to strike her down. For one glorious moment, Buffy had looked onto Bernard with complete resignation and acceptance at the prospect of meeting her fourth, and hopefully final, demise. The Slayer considered it rather ironic that that was what made the bugbear retreat with its tail between its legs.

Hermione looked skeptical about the explanation, but refrained from voicing that opinion. An awkward silence descended upon the group. Buffy poked her chocolate frog idly, just then her sharp ears picked up incoming footsteps from down the hall.

"I think I hear Madam Pomfrey," she warned them hurriedly, "you guys better high-tail it out of here before she throws a hissy fit."

The Gryffindor Trio left quickly not wanting to get on the mediwitch's bad side, despite the boys' reluctance.

-

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were ambushed by a small redhead as soon as they climbed through the Gryffindor Common Room's portrait hole. 

"Ron! Are you alright? Neville told me what happened to you in class," she shrieked, checking him over hastily for any bruises or broken bones.

"Ginny! I'm fine, get off!" Ron batted away her prying hands, mortified by the thought of being fussed over in public by his little sister.

The youngest Weasley bristled at the treatment. "Fine," Ginny retorted, tilting up her chin in response, "then I won't tell you what I heard about the new girl." She started to walk away.

"Wait!" Ron took the bate instantly. "Sorry Gin, what'd you hear?"

Ginny grinned broadly and plopped down on an armchair in front of the three eager-faced Seventh-years. Harry gulped as their eyes met for the first time since their breakup. She had elected to stay at the Burrow instead of spending the last days of summer at number twelve Grimmauld Place with him, Ron, and Hermione. Though Harry had resented her avoidance then and on the train ride to Hogwarts, he now realized the prudence of her decision. The black-haired Gryffindor found that he could not properly look her in the eye as a lump formed in his throat. Ginny, however, seemed to recover more easily. When Harry shook himself out of momentary daze, she was already in the middle of her tale.

"—Luna told me that she heard Blaise tell Millicent that he overheard Elizabeth tell Draco she's seventeen years old, from California, and graduated from an American wizarding school other than Salem Institute."

An expression of confusion spread across Hermione's face at that last bit of information. "I'm almost positive that Salem Institute is the only wizarding school in America."

Ron and Harry shrugged helplessly.

"Fancy a trip to the library then?" Harry suggested.

-

Buffy caught the Chocolate Frog she had been absently playing with for the last half hour and glanced up to see the regal centaur enter into the Hospital Wing. "Hello, stranger," she grinned. "Fancy meeting you here again." 

"The heavens shine upon you, Ms. Ashbery," greeted the tall, palomino-bodied centaur, bending low in a formal bow as he trotted to a stop beside her hospital bed.

"Chocolate?" Buffy offered, waving her hand in the direction of the large pile of chocolates that looked about ready to topple over on her nightstand.

"No thank you," he politely refused.

"So, what's up?" she asked, taking a nibble out of the Chocolate Frog that had finally run out of magic as it sagged against her fingers.

"I heard news of your noble rescue of Mr. Weasley this afternoon," Firenze began.

Buffy leveled him a look. "I'm not noble, Firenze. That was just reacting to instinct."

"What is nobility but the instinct to deny one's self for the safety of another?" countered the centaur.

"And _what_ is a visitor doing here when I gave specific instructions for undisturbed rest?" a third voice joined into the conversation as Madam Pomfrey poked her head out of her office.

Buffy grimaced as the angry school matron strode into the room. Madam Pomfrey had not been a happy camper when the Slayer had come in with her mangled arm earlier in the afternoon. It was silly, really, how the mediwitch still seemed to be nursing a grudge against the blonde for sneaking out several days ago.

"Apologies, mistress healer," the centaur bowed politely, regarding the matron. "I shan't hinder your treatment with my presence any longer. Until later," he bowed again before taking his leave.

Sighing, Buffy turned to face the fuming mediwitch, and bit off a sizable chunk of chocolate in dejection.

The twilight shone high above as the Slayer sat on her perch amongst the treetops. She had been staring into the inky darkness with her sharp and keen sight for hours, it seemed when her ears picked up a mighty bellow accompanied by the tingling sensation at the back of her neck that signaled the presence of her most natural enemy. Squinting, Buffy make out a large creature crossed with the torso of a man and the body of a horse, which she deduced must be a centaur. Even from afar, she could see that it had a pale, silvery-blonde mane and rippling muscles that most guys would have killed for. The stately palomino centaur reared up on its hind legs to buffet a trio of vampires at a distance. Three against one, that's not fair, she frowned. Pulling out the crossbow that hung against her back, she moved slowly into a crouch before leaping down onto the ground and landing softly on her feet.

Taking off at a run, the petite blonde came upon the small skirmish to see the centaur stamp down heavily the chest of a vampire just as another latched onto his neck with razor-sharp fangs. With another deep bellow of rage, the majestic creature flung the second vampire off, sending it crashing into a nearby tree trunk. Aiming her crossbow, Buffy let fly a wooden bolt with deadly accuracy into the chest of the first vampire who had been struggling to his feet as the centaur turned his attention on her. She noticed the centaur scrutinizing her critically for a fraction of a second before reaching for his elegantly crafted longbow and notching it with an arrow from his quiver. Without missing a beat, he dispatched the second vampire with a well-placed shot and whisked around to confront the last remaining vamp only to stop dead in his tracks as the vampire disintegrated into a plume of ash by her hand.

As Buffy dusted off her pants, she became aware that the centaur was regarding her with an inquisitive stare. Not sure how to respond, Buffy straightened and gazed into its astonishingly blue eyes that seemed to hold an ageless, otherworldly wisdom as they glistened like pale sapphires under the moonlight.

"Well met, Warrior of the Light," the centaur spoke at last in a deep, rumbling voice as he bent his front legs to greet her with a far more formal bow that she had ever received before. "It has been an age since a Slayer last walked amongst these woods."

"How... oh." A look of confusion Buffy's face before her gaze flitted down to the crossbow still clutched in one hand. Just call me discreet girl, she rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"I guess the cat's out of the bag," she sighed. "But it's supposed to be a big secret and all, so if you could not tattle tale, that'd be great."

A small frown of confusion pulled at the centaur's magnificently defined features as he attempted to decipher her odd speech pattern. "We speak the same language, yet your dialect is strange and perplexing."

"Surprisingly, you're not the first one who's ever mentioned that." She shook her head, pushing back the urge to roll her eyes at the comment. "Can you not tell anyone that I'm a Slayer, please?"

"I shall be honored to guard your confidence with my life, warrior," he vowed solemnly.

Buffy's eyebrows shot upward in surprise at his vehement response. "Um, thanks?"

"I am Firenze," the centaur introduced with a slight nod of his head.

"Oh, hi," Buffy waved her hand rather awkwardly. "Eliza Ashbery." She fell silent for a moment as she studied the proud creature before her. "Why were you fighting with the vamps by the way?"

"Because their accursed race is my kind's natural enemy. We are opposed as the darkness is to light."

"Oh."

That explained their unnatural shortage in the forest. To date, the night's showing had been the most the Slayer had ever encountered at one time.

Firenze gazed up into the star-strewn night sky as a pregnant silence settled between them. After several long moments, he lowered his gaze to regard her once more. "A convergence of Mars and the sun draws near. Facies shines brightly on you, Ms. Ashbery."

Okay? "And that means—what exactly?"

"War is upon this world, Chosen One. Soon, you must make a choice," replied Firenze enigmatically.

Crypticness had found a new spokesperson, Buffy decided.

"About what?" Pumps or stilettos? the veteran Slayer thought hopefully.

"That, I cannot say," Firenze answered with an apologetic shake of his head.

Exhaling in relief as Madam Pomfrey finally swept out of the Hospital Wing after shouting herself hoarse, Buffy thought back to the impromptu friendly archery contest that had followed between herself and the centaur. That little experience would forever go down as one of the most surreal moments in the veteran Slayer's life, ever. And that was saying something.

"May I examine the craftsmanship of your bow?" inquired the centaur as he eyed her crossbow curiously.

"Only if you let me see your bow and arrow," she returned, glancing at his choice of weaponry with equal interest. "I've never used one of those before."

A furrow creased the magnificent creature's strong brow. "Surely you jest?"

"Nah, they're too outdated for my line of work. Can't argue they're not pretty though," Buffy remarked as her keen eyes traced over the graceful arch of his dark brown yew bow, lingering appreciatively on the delicate, hand-painted gold designs.

Firenze stamped a hoof. "The longbow is a far superior weapon to that modern contraption you carry."

"What? I had this custom made! It's got a fifty meter range and 150 pound draw weight. Plus, it's small and light and has almost zero reload time. No way is your shiny bow and arrow better than this baby!" she defended, resisting the silly urge to cradle her favorite crossbow.

"You make a valid argument, Slayer. But what my longbow lacks in agility, it more than makes up for in balance, accuracy, and distance."

"I'll give you the balance and distance, but accuracy?"

"I stand by my assertion," the centaur stated sedately.

"Fine, you and me, that tree over there. Three shots each, two rounds." Buffy pointed to a tall birch some thirty meters away.

"And what is the prize?" He raised a pale eyebrow in question.

Defending my crossbow's honor, duh! "Satisfaction."

"Your terms are acceptable. I must warn you that all centaurs are naturally gifted in archery."

Buffy rolled her eyes in response.

Firenze repositioned his bow and withdrew an arrow on from his quiver. With a courteous nod of acknowledgement, he lined up the first shot and released his hold, setting up a target at the shorter blonde's eye level in generous consideration. The petite blonde watched closely as Firenze fired off a second arrow, which struck directly on top of the first and then the next on top of the second so that the shaft was embedded into the bark piercing what resembled a flower of wood trimmings.

"Not bad," she conceded before quickly eyeballing the target and letting three bolts fly from her crossbow in rapid succession, creating the same shearing effect as Firenze's arrows.

"It is a draw, a second round is unnecessary," Firenze concluded deferentially.

"Yes it is. Now, we switch bows," Buffy grinned up at the centaur who had been caught unawares.

"Very well," he acceded, recovering fast enough to impress the jaded Slayer as they quickly traded weapons. "You first this time."

Shrugging, the Slayer tested the weight of the longbow in her hand and flexed its string to check for the tension for a few seconds. Feeling reasonably uncomfortable with the foreign weapon, she notched on an arrow and took aim at the target. The arrow sailed through the night air to land a hair's breadth away from its intended destination. Frowning, she took aim again. This time the arrow struck true, as did the next.

Firenze commended her admirable efforts before firing from her crossbow, which looked pitifully dwarfed in his large hands. Buffy pulled a face when she saw all three of his shots land directly on target. With smiling eyes, the centaur returned the crossbow to the irked Slayer.

"Your bow's balance is a little off to the left," she groused.

That elicited a small chuckle from the regal centaur. "If you insist."

-

"Thanks for visiting me yesterday," Buffy remarked coolly as she settled next to Draco for another rousing hour of Potions. "It goes to show how much you care." 

The stares she had received this morning had been even more obvious than before. The Slayer suspected it had something to do with the bugbear incident. She shared a quick smile with Harry, Ron, and Hermione as they walked in. The gesture wasn't lost on Draco.

He turned to her with an icy glare. "It was your own bloody fault for jumping in front of the Weasel!"

"You're _mad_ at me about that?" she asked incredulously, scrunching up her nose at the nerve of the guy.

"I would've been happier if he'd be clawed to death, personally," the Prince of Slytherin sneered coldly.

"You're acting like such an insensitive jerk, Draco," Buffy pushed her chair roughly back, making its wooden legs scrape loudly against the stone floor. "Let me know when you grow a heart."

The Prince of Slytherin experienced a strange sense of loss as he watched the petite blonde stalk away in a blaze of anger. Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously when he saw where she was headed, until his line of vision was obstructed by one very amused and smirking Blaise Zabini.

"Hey, got room for one more?"

The Gryffindor Trio glanced up in surprise as the small blonde plopped down on the empty chair next to Harry's.

"Draco and I had a slight difference of opinion," she explained at their inquiring gazes.

"Malfoy's an evil, ferrety git," Ron snarled.

"It was only a matter of time before he showed his true self," Harry added darkly.

Buffy frowned. Apparently the feeling was mutual.

-

Hermione dumped two heavy, dusty books on top of Harry and Ron's Transfiguration essays that were lying on a coffee table, startling them both. Her face looked distinctly pinched. 

"Hey, watch where you're putting that!" Ron yelped, halfheartedly trying to pry his parchment from underneath.

Harry was quick to notice her sour expression, "What's wrong 'Mione?"

Hermione lifted the top volume's cover to show them the title inside. "This is the current directory of every wizarding school ever recognized by its respective national Ministry of Magic in the world. There's only one recorded for America."

"Salem Institute," Harry finished for her upon seeing her grim-set face.

The three of them exchanged an uncertain look.

Ron spoke up first. "You don't suppose she lied on purpose, do you?"

Hermione turned to Ron. "That's why I decided to do more research. The bottom book is the American Ministry of Magic's official registry of all practicing witches, wizards, and squibs born in the United States in the past century. Her name wasn't there either."

"Maybe she wasn't American born?" Harry offered.

Hermione looked pensive. "I could check all the other national records, but that would take weeks."

"Or, we could just go ask her about it," said Ron.

Harry jumped to his feet. "I'll get the Marauder's Map. It'll be faster than trying to search around for her on a Sunday afternoon," he explained, already at the foot of the stairs that led to the boys' dormitory, leaving Ron and Hermione behind to wait with bated breath.

The black-haired Gryffindor returned moments later with the piece of unfolded parchment in his hands. He gazed at his two best friends with a perplexed expression.

"Alright, Harry?" Ron asked.

"She's not on the map. Where did she go?"


	10. A Meeting of Minds

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone who left a review, you guys are awesome! Please, please, please continue to leave feedback. It's very helpful and _much_ appreciated! Kudos to my betas as always. Vkky and Katilwen, you ladies are awesome! 

Okay, loyal readers, I'd like to hear your valuable opinion on this matter. Do you think Draco Malfoy should be redeemed in this story? Why or why not? Thanks!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
Bleezer's Ice Cream

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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

-

**10. A Meeting of Minds**

**-**

Sighing, Albus gingerly lowered himself into his cushioned desk chair as he unfurled his newly delivered copy of the _Evening Prophet_. Two more mysterious disappearances and an unusual derailing of a tube down at Manchester were the top news of the day. Tossing the newspaper carelessly aside, the Headmaster pinched the bridge of his nose with long, tapered fingers of his good hand, at once losing the great energy that others had always perceived in the renowned Headmaster. Muggle baiting and periodic snatchings aside, the past several months had seemed suspiciously quiet to the wizened wizard. If he didn't know any better, Albus would have supposed that they were stalling, just toying with the public's attention while they concentrated on something bigger. This was indeed the calm before the coming storm, he was sure of it.

The only real questions was: would they be ready?

A cold chill raced down the length of the Headmaster's spine as the memory of the dark days of the First Great Wizarding War flitted through his aged mind. Like a plague, the fear of Lord Voldemort and his followers had crept into the hearts of the weak and strong alike, poisoning their minds with foundless distrust and paranoia and disuniting a community that should have been more than capable of banding together to defeat the common threat. Yet, hardly anyone had realized what was transpiring right in front of their very eyes until it was almost too late. It was by no less than a miracle that Tom had finally been foiled at the height of his power by none other than a one-year old boy by the name of Harry Potter. And yet, the circumstances surrounding that fated night were weighing increasingly heavier on Dumbledore's mind.

For many, it would have been considered an lifetime achievement to claim defeat of the Dark Lord even once, but to have the fate of the entire wizarding (and quite possibly Muggle) world resting upon one's shoulders—it was too great a burden for anyone to carry, let alone a mere seventeen year-old boy. And while Albus had been reasonably content to simply observe Harry's astounding progress for the past six years, the Headmaster realized now that he must take an even more active role in the dear boy's education. Too much was dependent on the success or failure of their actions. The whole of the wizarding community's survival was now hinged upon them. I'm getting too old for this, Albus thought grimly as weariness seeped into his ancient bones. Had it been fifty years ago, Dumbledore would have gladly tackled Voldemort head-on, as he had done against Grindelwald. But now...

At the ripe old age of one hundred and fifty-seven, Albus could unashamedly confess that he was no longer in his prime. And while Harry was by no means encumbered with slower reaction times and the draining effects of prolonged magic use, the youth was beset by another set of shortcomings. Namely, the ability to focus one's mind and control one's emotions that usually came after decades of time and experience; luxuries that unlike most of his contemporaries Harry unfortunately did not possess. Still, Albus would do what he could. Take the boy under his wing and rally the resistance, those things he could do. Locate and destroy the remaining Horcruxes? That was a trickier task altogether. The puzzle of the last Horcrux in particular, had kept the wizened wizard awake during many a night. A shadow of a doubt was slowly beginning to take shape in his psyche.

Fawkes, who had been dozing atop his golden perch, awoke at the waves of anxiety radiating from his owner. The phoenix rose gracefully in the air and landed lightly on Dumbledore's lap, trilling a soothing song. The wizened wizard felt instantly rejuvenated with a small measure of strength and hope. "Ever are you a beacon of light in dark and difficult times, my old friend," he smiled down upon his faithful pet. As Albus stroked Fawkes' vibrant plumage with his uninjured hand, he was sharply reminded of another pair of young shoulders that had endured too great a burden and more horrors than he knew. A slow grin broke across his face as the elderly Headmaster recalled hearing Hagrid's animated recount of Buffy's rescue of Ronald Weasley over dinner several nights ago. The veteran Slayer would never know how much her selfless act had lightened his troubled thoughts. But then again, Buffy Summers had always had that effect on him.

Albus hurried down the narrow, graffiti-filled alleyway toward the entrance to the Ministry. The current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had an appointment with Cornelius Fudge to discuss the stationing of Dementors around the school grounds in light of Sirius Black's recent escape from Azkaban. It was not something Dumbledore was looking forward to; in fact he would rather have his beard plucked hair by hair than have another asinine dealing with the bungling bureaucrat. The last thing the wizened wizard had expected to see was a tiny blonde young woman standing inside the shabby telephone booth, peering alternately into the mouthpiece and earpiece of the receiver while jabbing random combinations into the keypad, her nose scrunched up in concentration.

The aura of power that emanated from her was almost palpable to his magically attuned senses. Albus sensed that the petite blonde was not a witch, but most definitely more than a Muggle, or he was a Squib. The Hogwarts Headmaster searched quickly through his memory banks. After several moments of wool-clearing, he concluded that she must be a Slayer, and an exceptionally strong one at that to have survived to her apparent early twenties. Dumbledore waited with practiced patience for the blonde to notice his presence, but she was too preoccupied with trying to figure out the payphone.

Albus couldn't conceal the amusement in his voice when he finally inquired, "Are you done with that confounded contraption yet, my dear?"

The young woman's head shot up quick as a whip at the sound of his voice, her expressive hazel eyes grew wide as saucers. He chuckled inwardly at her deer-caught-in-the-headlights look. She hastily jammed the receiver back on its hook and stepped out from the booth.

"I think it's broken, Gandalf," she informed him.

His clear blue eyes sparkled with laughter.

"Gandalf, I am not. I'm afraid I don't look nearly as sharp in monochrome nor do I own a shiny white horse," he responded in mock seriousness.

The young woman glanced around their surroundings cautiously before replying in a hushed tone, "Actually, you're probably going to think I'm crazy, but I just saw a man go into the booth and disappear through a trapdoor thingy."

She paused, tilting her head slightly to the side in considering the man standing before her. He was tall, willowy, very old, and—very odd. His impeccably bright, blue eyes peered at her over a pair of half-moon spectacles that lay perched atop a long and crooked nose. The stranger had a lifetime's worth of white hair, mustache, and beard, the last of which was tied in the middle with a tiny strip of blue ribbon that ended in tiny bells. But the strangest aspect about him was his choice of clothing, hands down. The silver-haired man wore a roomy long periwinkle dress with flared sleeves and tiny blue stars embroidered at the hems, topped off with a matching pointed cap and lace-up heeled boots. The buzz of energy surrounding him belied his aged appearance.

"Come to think of it, that guy was wearing a dress just like you. You're not members of some freaky cross-dressing cult, are you?"

Dumbledore couldn't for the life of him rein in his amusement any longer. The Headmaster's laughter bubbled forth loud and clear, echoing throughout the narrow confines of the abysmal alley. The blonde, however, merely crossed her arms and raised an expectant eyebrow. When Albus at last regained some resemblance of restraint, he had already decided that Prime Minister Cornelius would just have to wait. After all, he hadn't met anyone this interesting in years.

"I assure you that I am not a cross-dresser—as of late." His mustache and beard twitched ever so faintly. "Although I can hardly vouch for someone I've not met."

"My name is Albus Dumbledore, by the way. And I can answer all of your burning questions over a nice spot of tea and crumpets," he offered with a smile.

The young blonde appraised him through narrowed eyes for several long minutes, before apparently deciding that the Gandalf look-alike wasn't some big bad plotting to lead her away like a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. Plus, the girl was feeling too curious to refuse; he could tell that by the way she was unobtrusively scrutinizing him. "Okay, but only if you're buying. And I want coffee or something else instead," she agreed lamely.

"Of course, my dear," Albus replied benignly before leading her on the brisk walk to Diagon Alley.

Dumbledore caught the girl eyeing him suspiciously out of the corner of her eye, but pretended he hadn't noticed. They entered a small, shabby-looking inn by the name of The Leaky Cauldron, which sat sandwiched between a record store and large book shop. She frowned as her hazel eyes fell on the Quasimoto look-alike standing behind the counter. Frankly, his unusual appearance did not assure her that the freaky cross-dressers weren't—well, freaks—in the least.

"A round of butterbeers, Headmaster?" the bald bartender asked, giving them a friendly toothless grin.

"Not today, Tom. We're just passing through," Albus replied politely as he motioned for her to follow him behind the pub and into a small dead-end alleyway lined with trashcans.

"It's a wall—" she trailed off.

Dumbledore simply winked at her before pulling out his wand. Instantly, the seasoned Slayer fell into a defensive stance and watched warily as he tapped the bricks with his wand: three up, two across. He heard a small gasp as the bricks began rearranging themselves, shifting outward until an archway appeared at the center. Albus ducked inside and the blonde followed hesitantly behind.

She stopped short in her tracks as the entirety of the bustling long cobbled street came into view.

"Wow, it's like a secret hideaway!" the girl murmured in evident awe.

The wizened wizard simply smiled at the young Slayer, "Welcome to Diagon Alley, my dear. Come, this way."

He watched as the girl stared wide-eyed at the strange assortment of shops and restaurants and at the throng of odd men and women all wearing those strange dresses in every color and pattern. Judging by the confused look across her face, Albus was sure that she couldn't believe some of the establishment names she saw, such as Quality Quidditch Supplies and Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. The place probably made her Slayer senses prickle in the same peculiar manner his own presence had, only ten fold. And not to mention the weird hooting sounds being emitted from the nearby creature shop down the street.

Albus led her to an outdoor cafe in front of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. By the happy grin that lighted the girl's face, the wizened wizard knew that he'd chosen the right establishment. Mr. Florean himself came to take their orders. Dumbledore asked for a double scoop of strawberry and peanut butter, causing the young blonde to give him a rather funny look. She asked for cookie dough fudge mint chip instead, causing a perplexed look to flash briefly across Fortescue's face in turn before he left to fill their orders. This was how Albus Dumbledore ended up having sundaes under a brightly rainbow-colored umbrella with a blonde American Slayer. They made quite the pair: he in his majestic flowing robes and she in her pretty little sundress.

The small blonde eyed her ice cream closely when it came, and then raised it to her nose for a suspicious whiff.

"Don't worry, my dear. I'd never sink so low as to poison an unsuspecting guest," Albus assured her, dipping into his own sugary confection.

She looked slightly abashed before taking a tentative bite.

"So, are you gonna explain to me what the heck is going on, Bumblebee?" she asked plaintively.

"Yes, of course—it's Dumbledore, by the way. As you've probably already guessed, that was no ordinary telephone booth. What you saw was the Muggle entrance to the British Ministry of Magic."

"The what to the huh?" she blurted out eloquently, then she caught on to his words, "What's muggle? And what's the monastery of magic?"

"Muggle means non-magic and the Ministry of Magic is the wizarding world's own form of government."

The girl stared at him incredulously. "You mean there's a whole secret society of weird dress-wearing people around the world!"

Albus' mustache convulsed violently in mirth. "Those 'dresses' are called robes, my dear, and I assure you that it's custom among our kind for both genders to wear them. But yes, there are smatterings of my kind everywhere."

"So—you're a wizard?" she paused for a moment, "Is that what your skinny stake thingy is for?"

"Yes, we use wands to perform magic."

"Why did that bald guy call you a head master?"

"Because I am the headmaster of a school for young witches and wizards," he explained serenely.

"Oh." Realization dawned on her fair features. "You mean like a school principal?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"And this place, it's like a wizarding haven?"

"Of sorts." Albus surveyed the girl for a beat. "I must say that you are taking this remarkably well."

"Well, I've seen a lot of freaky shi—SHIPS in my lifetime," she scrambled to correct herself, appearing sheepish for almost having cursed in front of a really old man.

"Indeed?" He paused to study her in consideration. "Well, now that I've answered your questions, will you tell me your name?"

The girl stared deeply into Dumbledore's eyes for a long time, as if searching for any lies or malice. She smiled widely after apparently finding none and deeming it safe. Extending a hand over their table, she introduced herself.

"Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer."

A soft knock on the door jolted the Headmaster out of his reverie. Albus quickly called, "Come in!" Shaking away the memory, Albus turned his attention to the familiar petite blonde who had just entered. She was dressed impeccably as usual this night, her slender tanned frame attired in a snuck-fitting pair of charcoal pants topped off with an off-the-shoulder pale pink blouse. Buffy's long blonde hair was pulled up into a high ponytail that left wisps of gold to frame her heart-shaped face. She was the picture of youth and vitality, yet anyone who spared a second glance would have noticed the maturity that belied her appearance.

"Good evening, my dear! I was just thinking about you," he greeted her with a smile of pleasant surprise.

Buffy arched a golden brow in response. "It wasn't anything bad, I hope."

"It's never anything bad with you," Albus answered honestly, smiling as she settled herself into the armchair opposite his desk. "So, how can I be of service this evening?"

"You can't. I'm here to offer my services tonight," Buffy replied before she paused and grimaced, closing her eyes. "Okay. That sounded _so_ wrong."

At that, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled even more than usual and his mustache was twitched violently as he let out a stream of soft chuckles.

"Anywho," Buffy continued while shooting him a reproachful glare. "I wanted to see if I could help unchar your hand."

Albus stopped laughing at once as he focused his clear blue eyes on the small blonde sitting before him. A comforting warmth spread through his heart suddenly as the wizened wizard caught the veteran Slayer eyeing his injured hand, and at the concerned expression on her normally impassive face, the Headmaster felt a compelling urge to stand up and hug the dear girl. It took a split-second for Albus to remind himself to stay in his seat. Buffy hadn't been much one for the hugging lately. "I'm afraid the damage is permanent, but thank you for the thought," he said after a moment or two.

"So, you've tried fixing it before?"

"Indeed, yes." Dumbledore bowed his head. Tried, he had, and by no small effort at that.

"Have you tried Wiccan magic?"

"No, I haven't," the Headmaster replied as a small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth.

In fact, Albus had never even considered it before. After all, no self-respecting wand wizard studied what was considered a subcategory of the dark arts. At worst, Wiccan magicks were considered backwards pagan mysticism and at best they were an inferior form since any old Muggle could perform spells and curses given the right materials and incantations. Through his acquintance with Buffy, Dumbledore had come to the realization that Wiccan magicks were indeed a branch of magic powerful in its own right. The veteran Slayer had told of many feats accomplished by her Wiccan friend that were considered utterly inconceivable within his own realm of magic. The conventional bias appeared to be just another myth perpetuated by the Ministry to protect their way of life from competing mores. However, even if the thought had occurred to him, Albus was about as wise to Wiccan practices as Buffy was to the courtroom procedures of the Wizengamot.

As if she had read his mind, Buffy said with a knowing grin, "I picked up a few things from Wil over the years. Not enough to open portals or anything fancy but I did help her regrow skin at some point. Since you seem to be missing some as well, I thought it wouldn't hurt to try."

The Headmaster's silvery eyebrows lifted as she reached over his desk to grasp both of his hands in hers tiny ones. Puzzled, Albus was about to ask what she was doing when the petite Slayer shut her eyes and exhaled a deep breath before instructing, "Close your eyes and concentrate. Just take what you need, I've got plenty to spare."

Albus did as he was told, feeling the Slayer's undiluted, primal power that was so different from wizarding magic emanating from the small slip of a girl in intoxicating waves. Tentatively, the wizened wizard reached out with his mind as he felt Buffy allowing him access to the very source of her power. The Headmaster nearly jerked out of her grasp at the immense, raw intensity of it but the veteran Slayer held onto him tightly. Clenching his jaw in concentration, he pulled back slowly from her essence until he was just barely grazing the surface. The wizened wizard briefly let himself rejoice in the overwhelming fact that Buffy had permitted him such a privilege, so intimate an act that it mirrored the sharing of one's soul. Smiling now, Albus focused his attention onto a tiny tendril of that power and harnessed it to mix with his own magicks.

After a few minutes or an eternity, Dumbledore wasn't sure, he noticed with awed wonder tingling and stretching and the sting of a thousand paper cuts as skin, tissue, and nerves gradually knitted together on that which had long lost its sense of feel—and his hand pulsed with blood and life once more.


	11. Quit Itch

**Author's Note:** The monologue in the flashback is taken from 'Touched' (BtVS season 7). Review please! Thanks to my betas: Vkky and Katilwen! 

  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
To Enjoy the Time

While fates permit us, let's be merry;   
Pass all we must the fatal ferry;   
And this our life, too, whirls away,   
With the rotation of the day.

Robert Herrick   
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

-

**11. Quit Itch**

-

The billowing sea of green seemed to stretch on for miles, occasionally broken by islands of foliage. The sun's fading rays spilled upon the tranquil countryside, casting the lone wanderer's skin in rich hues of magenta and gold. She lay on her back, her small, delicate frame almost concealed completely by the tall, wind-blown grass, looking to all the world asleep as the day's dying light played upon her fair features. The last of the sky's vibrance slowly stole away, a symphony of shadows its successor. The night had arrived. And she had woken.

As the years progressed, she had taken on an increasingly nocturnal quality, whether by necessity or will she wasn't certain. She supposed it began with the accursed late shifts at the Doublemeat Palace. That was then that she had first sought solace in the muted tones of twilight during that disastrous year, seeking refuge from the harsh abrasive day and the reality of her bleak existence that came with it. It was what led her to him. She would have never believed at that time that their torrid affair would amount to anything besides a wanton distraction. Just the animalistic coupling of two bodies. Mutually assured destruction in the definitive sense of the word.

She didn't so much as bat an eye when he stole away like a thief in the night.

How things had changed afterwards.

How _he_ had changed but yet still stayed the same.

She missed him. After Sunnydale. Now. Missed him with a desperate ache that clawed at her heart.

Her small hand glided through the supple blades of grass, which glinted silver in the moonlight. As inky blackness descended, the boundless expanse of clear sky began to glisten with infinite diamonds. She sank further into the green, taking solace in the stillness she had sought increasingly over the years. Yet, the memories came as they always would; a relentless flood of sights and sounds pulling her back, drowning her.

He came to her always, unbidden, elusive as the tendrils of smoke that used to curl from his ever-present cigarette. Amid the pressing tangle of sweaty club-goers she'd glimpse a flash of white-blonde and her breath would hitch, her heart would skip—but only for a second. During the late, lonely watches of the night she'd catch that telltale swagger and theatrical billow of black leather, only to find an unwitting imposter. At the sound of every Cockney accent her head would whip round.

Once, Willow had asked her why she loved him. She couldn't produce a coherent response at the time. But now in the desolation of his absence, she knew. She didn't love him for loving her above all else; selfless, reverent, and reckless. She didn't love him for saving the world. She loves him for allowing her to simply _be._

Hey, look at me. I'm not asking you for anything. When I say I love you, it's not because I want you, or because I can't have you. It has nothing to do with me. I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I've seen your kindness and your strength. I've seen the best and the worst of you and I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You are a hell of a woman.

She remembered the tears streaming down her cheeks as she stared down at him kneeling before her. She recalled the raw look of adoration on his face, despite all the horrible, unspeakable things she had done to him—or maybe it was because of those things.

You're the one, Buffy.

And he had loved her in spite of that. What they had wasn't the star-crossed romance with Angel, or the carefree dalliances she partook in with numerous others. What they shared was that much more real and messy, like life itself.

So this is your favorite place in the whole world?

Yeh. Well, other than your magnificent quim, that is, he responded with his trademark smirk and quirked eyebrow, gazing at her with that look of lewd reverence that always made her feel like she was the Venus De Milo of his universe in all her naked glory.

Buffy sighed long and deep, as though the act alone would expel some measure of the abject emptiness that filled her body. It was too soon to come back to this place, for her treacherous mind associated too many memories with this little piece of heaven. It didn't seem to make a difference that she had finally gotten around to visiting Angel's various real estate holdings once she had worked up enough courage. Perhaps it was because she had been apart from the souled vampire for so long that the wounds were no longer fresh, she reasoned.

Not so much with Spike.

Letting out another long breath, she emerged suddenly from the rolling cascade of deepest green like a nymph from the seas and studied the position of the pale crescent moon with a keenness that had been acquired through a decade of experience. The night was still young. With a soft 'pop' the idyllic countryside lay once more undisturbed and the Slayer surrendered once more to the siren call of the hunt.

-

Harry hurried to catch up. Buffy pivoted round, the brief faraway look slipping off her face immediately to be replaced by one of carefully schooled neutrality.

"Oh, hey Harry."

"Where've you been all week?" Ron asked as he and Hermione fell into step with the duo.

"Around. Didn't feel much like being here," she shrugged absently.

Hermione looked positively scandalized by Eliza's blatant disregard for classroom attendance. Harry was about to ask the petite blonde where she had gone when someone called his name from behind. He turned reluctantly around to see Pavarti Patil striding towards him with a small roll of parchment.

"Professor Dumbledore asked me to give you this," she explained, already moving off.

"Thanks," Harry called after her retreating form.

He stopped in the middle of the hallway, hastily unrolling the parchment as Ron and Hermione looked over his shoulder to read along.

_Dear Harry,   
It's time to continue our private lessons again.   
Please come to my office at eight p.m. next   
Saturday. I hope you've enjoyed your first   
two weeks back at school. _

_Yours truly,   
Albus Dumbledore   
P.S. I recommend Fizzing Whizbees._

Harry stuffed the parchment roll into his trouser pocket as soon as he'd finished, eager to continue his chat with Eliza. Yet as he glanced around, she was nowhere in sight. With a wistful sigh, he concluded that the girl must have slipped off when Pavarti showed up. The black-haired Gryffindor couldn't help feeling a tinge of disappointment as Ron and Hermione began to speculate animatedly on what the Headmaster's new lessons would entail. Harry's attention flitted in and out of their discussion as he scanned the Great Hall for some sign of the mysterious blonde every few minutes, but she had eluded him once again.

-

Sunday morning came cloudless with radiant sunshine. Breakfast was a subdued affair as Ron looked greener by the minute, despite Harry and Hermione's constant assurance all weekend that he would make the team without a doubt. 

"You really should eat something, Ron," Hermione wheedled while discreetly nudging a plate of toast in his direction, which he unfortunately failed to notice.

"Yeah, Ron. You'll do great! You're the best Keeper Gryffindor's got!" Harry added.

Despite his outward enthusiasm, Quidditch had lost some of its appeal for Harry ever since he and Dumbledore had uncovered the truth about Voldemort's horcruxes. Sure, the Seventh-year still loved everything about the sport, especially its sense of freedom and the elation of a win, but it seemed to pale in comparison to the grand scheme of things. Harry supposed it was a sign that he was finally growing up, or something along those lines.

The trio arrived at the Quidditch pitch five minutes to eight. Harry held no great sense of anticipation as he surveyed the new year's turnout for the house trials. (Although, he was ecstatic to find McLaggen missing from the large crowd. Not back by popular demand.) Hermione quickly wished Ron good luck before heading for the stands to secure herself a good spot before they were all taken. Ron's complexion instantly turned slightly less pallid as the bushy-haired Head Girl gave him an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. Not for the first time, it made Harry wonder when his two best friends would finally get a clue.

Harry decided to conduct the try-outs in the same format as before, which had seemed to work well enough. Four and one half grueling hours later, he was pleased to find himself with the previous year's teammates all returning: Dean Thomas, Demelza Robins, and Ginny Weasley as Chasers; a slightly taller Jimmy Peakes and more filled-out Ritchie Coote as Beaters; and Ron Weasley as Keeper. Harry whirled round to face his assembled team.

"Well done, everyone," he praised, "you all flew brilliantly today!" he cheered, pumping a fist in the air for added emphasis.

Harry tensed momentarily when his gaze fell upon Ginny. To his extreme relief, she nodded in acknowledgement after an awkward second and he quickly did likewise. Somehow, he knew then that things would be alright between the two of them, that they would never suffer the unbearable awkwardness that had plagued his every encounter with Cho after their horrid breakup.

"Ron!"

Hermione came running towards them looking very happy. She surprised everyone by flinging her arms around Ron, engulfing him in a great, big hug.

"You were incredible!" she gushed while Ron had belatedly realized what was going on and shyly set her back down on the grassy field.

Two spots of deep pink appeared high on Ron's cheeks, growing larger each second until they encompassed his entire face.

"Thanks, 'Mione," Ron replied sheepishly, now suddenly becoming painfully aware that everyone's eye had turned to Hermione and himself.

"Hey team," Harry began quickly, hoping to divert their attention, "the first practice is this Wednesday morning at eight. Can everyone make it?"

His question was met with six nods of assent. Harry dismissed them after saying his farewells and turned to regard his two best friends. Ron was bouncing on the balls of his feet as he excitedly recounted every save to a beaming and highly amused Hermione. Maybe they aren't as clueless as I thought, Harry smiled inwardly.

"You guys go on ahead," said Harry, "I'll clean up here and catch up later."

Ron and Hermione turned around looking startled. Apparently, they had forgotten that Harry was even there.

"Alright then, mate," Ron answered, eager to be off.

"See you later, Harry," Hermione smiled graciously, calling after the black-haired Gryffindor House Quidditch captain as he picked up his broom and the Quidditch set suitcase and headed off for their locker room.

As Harry made his way back across the school's large side lawn, one solitary figure far beyond the multitude of students basking in the last days of summer caught his eye: the person he had most wanted to find for days now. The Seventh-year could just make out the blonde's tiny frame sitting Indian-style and perfectly still beneath the shade of a secluded giant oak. Grinning in pleasant surprise, he halted mid-stride and made a beeline for Eliza Ashbery. As he drew near, her hazel eyes snapped open and fell on the broomstick in his right hand.

"What are you doing, sitting here all by your lonesome?" he asked curiously.

"Meditating."

Harry was suddenly struck with the thought that Eliza might be one of those barking mad New Age enthusiasts like his friend Luna Lovegood. But just as quickly, he rejected the idea. After all, she didn't look the least bit insane in his opinion.

"So, did Professor Snake sentence you to cleaning duty this weekend?" she quipped, her gaze shifting to the broom clutched in his hand.

"What? Oh," Harry chuckled, "Thankfully, not today."

"So what's with the broom then?"

"You're serious?" he asked incredulously, certain that the girl was pulling his leg. When he was met with a blank look, Harry burst out, "How can you be a witch and _not_ know about Quidditch!"

Buffy shrugged, unconcerned, "I'm kinda new to all this wizardy magic stuff. What's Quit Itch anyway? Brooms being marketed as the new fangled back scratcher?"

"What? No!" Harry gasped, looking as if she had just suggested that they should eat babies for lunch with a smear of jam. "_Quidditch_ is a wizarding sport! It's the most popular game in the wizarding world, actually. It's a sport where the players fly on broomsticks and-"

"You're kidding!" she exclaimed, interrupting his explanation mid-sentence. "You're saying that people actually _ride_ on those things?" the Slayer asked, eyeing his broom quite skeptically.

"Yeah, of course," Harry replied, clutching his beloved broomstick rather defensively, "this is a _Thunderbolt_, one of the fastest professional brooms you can buy."

"Uh huh," she muttered, not hearing the rest of his words as the image of Professor McGonagall wearing her witch's hat and riding a broom silhouetted against the backdrop of a gigantic full moon popped suddenly into her mind while the theme song to that old television program _Bewitched_ began playing in the background. Unable to contain herself, Buffy's head tipped back as a stream of boisterous laughter suddenly bubbled forth. It was simply too much cliché proving true for her to handle.

Harry shifted on his feet awkwardly before he succumbed to her infectious mirth. It looked to her as if he hadn't laughed for a long while himself. They went on for seemingly hours until both were desperately short of breath and holding their agonized sides that felt as if they were in serious danger of splitting open.

"Thanks," Buffy croaked as another giggle escaped from her lips.

Laughter had become precious to her. Buffy couldn't remember herself ever laughing so hard after the third awakening except when she was with the quirky Headmaster. Glad to have found another person who could make her laugh, the veteran Slayer watched Harry as he gazed down at her and smiled. For a brief moment, she was struck by the intensity of his uncannily vivid green eyes glittering behind his glasses and how the radiant sunshine played up his classically handsome features in a way that she had never noticed before. His face was lit up in a great big smile with such ardor and unspoilt genuineness that it touched a place deep inside her, which resonated with a warm, tingling glow. For perhaps the first time since the incident, Buffy decided to lower the insurmountable barriers she'd erected around herself.

"I really needed that," she said with uncharacteristic candor, her eyes becoming less closed-off for the moment.

Harry thought she looked even more beautiful like that.

"I admit it does sound a bit ridiculous if you think about it," he returned with a self-deprecating grin.

Harry knew it was a long shot, but at that point he would have used just about any miserable, pathetic excuse to spend more time with her. He hoped there was a bigger chance now that he'd put Eliza in a good mood.

"Do you want to give it a try?" he asked tentatively, "I swear it's a lot more fun than it looks."

"I don't know—" Buffy hesitated. She was having problems with the phallic nature of it all. And the seating space looked about as comfy as a—well, a stick between one's legs.

"Come on, Eliza! You're not afraid of heights, are you?"

To Harry's immense relief, his last question seemed to get a rise out of her. Buffy sprang to her feet with preternatural grace and deftly pulled her hair up into a ponytail. It was then that he noticed the nasty-looking gash running down the underside of her left arm and another cut exposed by her upraised shirt.

"What happened to your arm?" he asked without thinking.

"Angry puppy," Buffy shrugged, her terseness clearly indicating that she didn't want to dwell on the topic. "Okay, I'm ready," she prompted, her tone instantly more guarded and her eyes veiled, "So what's the what?"

It took Harry a couple of seconds to decipher her slang. He decided to save pondering over her injuries for later and summoned up his broom. The black-haired Gryffindor gestured for her to stand at the front of the Thunderbolt after he had settled himself towards the back.

"Just climb on and hold tight," he instructed.

Shooting the young wizard another dubious glance, she sighed and swung a leg over the broomstick. Settling in, Buffy found much to her surprise that it was actually somewhat comfortable. Must be one of those hidden magic charms.

The blonde Slayer did as told, "Like this?"

"Perfect," said Harry.

He leaned forward to grip the handle, his arms encircling Buffy's small frame in the process. Harry briefly pressed his nose into her soft hair and decided that she smelled irresistible, good enough to eat with the notes of jasmine, citrus, and something unmistakably earthy.

"Hang on," Harry whispered, his hot breath intimately tickling her ear.

The pair shot straight upward on the Thunderbolt as Harry kicked forcefully off from the ground. As they soared through the air, Buffy was at once struck with the heady rush of boundless freedom that could only be experienced while flying. They circled once around the Hogwarts castle, the bird's eye view allowing the blonde Slayer to fully appreciate its sheer breadth and intricacy of design. This is way better than a roller coaster, she noted to herself as Harry veered off suddenly, shouting to be heard in the gushing wind as he freed a hand to point at the football stadium sized plot of land lying below them.

"THAT'S THE QUIDDITCH PITCH DOWN THERE."

With a burst of speed, he steered them around the triple goal posts on either side and weaved them through several of the elevated stands. Then, Buffy and Harry were sailing over the Forbidden Forest, which in her opinion looked much less foreboding from afar, and tracing the slopes of the surrounding mountains.

"HOW HIGH CAN THIS THING GO?" Buffy asked, surprisingly enjoying herself.

"LET'S FIND OUT!" he hollered back, all of a sudden feeling adventurous.

Harry tugged the Thunderbolt's handle sharply and they climbed higher and higher into the clear midday sky. He stopped their ascent when the air around them began to feel significantly colder and thinner. Harry glanced down to see the massive Hogwarts castle reduced to the size of a matchbox.

"It's so peaceful up here—it's perfect," Buffy observed, more breathless from the awe-inspiring view than the altitude.

"We can stay for a bit if you like," the Seventh-year Gryffindor offered.

She twisted around on the broom with a gracious smile alighting her pixie-like features, "Thank you, Harry."

He thought she looked impossibly more gorgeous then with her tan skin aglow, blonde hair gleaming gold, and normally dark eyes a curious blend of blue and green with flecks of amber in the bright natural illumination. Resplendent. Harry grew emboldened and ventured to hold her a little closer. He was very glad that Eliza had straightened again and was therefore unable to see the goofy grin that had split across his face when she didn't shift away from his embrace.

"Don't mention it."

Eventually, they began finding it a bit difficult to breathe and Harry broke the comfortable silence with great reluctance.

"Ready to go back?"

"Yeah," the Slayer sighed a little wistfully.

"The fast way or the slow way?"

"Surprise me," she whispered with a smile in her voice.

Buffy let out a startled gasp as Harry pushed down on the Thunderbolt's handle with unexpected force, tipping them into an almost vertical drop. They sliced through the air with the giddy feeling of weightlessness.

"DID ANYONE EVER TELL YOU THAT YOU'RE CRAZY?" she yelled, her amused laughter muffled in the whipping wind.

"I'LL TAKE THAT AS A COMPLIMENT!" Harry hollered back.

As the ground rose up sharply to meet them, a nagging anxiety grew in the pit of Buffy's stomach. There were far better ways to kick the bucket than falling to painful death, she should know. Besides, been there, done that.

"HARRY, PULL UP!" she warned with twenty-five feet between the pair and their imminent ugly demise, but he simply ignored her.

"_HARRY!_"

The Slayer was about to taking measures into her own hands when Harry yanked roughly on the Thunderbolt's handle with less than two feet to spare. Miraculously, the broom tilted back with a jerk into a horizontal position and slowed to a stop right in front of the same oak tree.

"Wow!" Buffy breathed with a dazed expression as soon as their feet had touched down on the grass. "I gotta get myself one of these babies."

Harry grinned widely as he watched her pick up the now lifeless Thunderbolt and examine it with new-found interest.

"I can show you how to ride it yourself," he offered.

"Th—"

Buffy's reply was cut short by a loud rumble that erupted from the Gryffindor's stomach. Harry ducked his head in embarrassment as his cheeks predictably inflamed. He should have known that things had been going too well to last.

"I'd love to, but it sounds like your stomach has other plans," she smiled in understanding and handed the broomstick back with great care.

"Er—do you want to have lunch together instead?"

"Nah, not hungry. But thanks for the ride, it was absolutely _amazing_."

Harry grinned again, feeling extremely pleased with himself, "Well, let me know when you want the lesson then."

"I will," Buffy promised before resuming her earlier seated position.

"Bye Eliza."

Harry strode back across the lawn and into the Great Hall, the satisfied grin never once leaving his face. Ron and Hermione were already working on dessert by the time Harry reached the Gryffindor table.

"What took you so long?" Ron asked in between inhaling towering scoops of his chocolate sundae, luckily his complexion had returned from the earlier sickly green to a more normal color.

"I took the Thunderbolt out for another spin, must've lost track of the time," he shrugged, holding up his beloved new Quidditch broom as evidence.

Hermione appeared ready to question Harry on the reason behind his silly grin but got distracted when Ron stole the cherry from her own sundae and popped it with flourish into his waiting mouth.

"Ronald Weasley!"

_Smack._

"Ouch, 'Mione!"


	12. What Dreams May Come

**Author's Note:** I'm pretty set on doing a Buffy pairing, maybe even more than one, although it won't begin till much later in the story. Please let me know who you'd prefer to see and why (if you haven't already). I'd rather not break up any existing couples, so please only suggest single characters as of HP 6. Questions, comments, suggestions, and even criticisms give me ideas and help me to write better. So, if you have time, please leave a review. Thanks! 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
Hamlet (Act III, Scene 1, 67-70)

To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,   
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come  
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil  
Must give us pause.

William Shakespeare  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

-

**12. What Dreams May Come**

**-**

Harry found his vision blurring as stinging thick purple smoke curled up from his gurgling cauldron. He stood bent over his brand new copy of _Advanced Potion-Making Volume 2_, eyes squinting to make out the meticulous instructions.

"Six years of study, and yet the _Chosen One_ still fails to follow the simplest of directions," a silky voice drawled. "Even a First-Year knows the difference between stirring clockwise and counterclockwise."

There Severus stood, directly in front of Harry's desk, black eyes shining with a look of snide victory behind his curtain of greasy black hair. Harry glowered in return, standing a little straighter (he was an inch or two taller than Snape now). Gripping his wooden ladle so hard the skin over his knuckles turned white, Harry began furiously churning his smoky potion in the opposite direction, making the purple liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim.

Professor Snape watched Harry for several seconds with a raised eyebrow. Then the Potions Master spoke with a feigned sigh as though he thought it were a great pity, "Your potion's completely worthless now, Potter. Zero marks. _Evanesco._"

With one dismissive flick of Snape's wand, Harry suddenly found himself stirring thin air and the potion he had been slaving over all week vanished into nothingness. Malfoy snickered from across the room. Harry slammed his now clean ladle onto his table, not caring that the loud bang startled everyone else in the classroom. Harry felt a soft tug on his sleeve. He turned to see Hermione shaking her head emphatically at him. Her other hand was still studiously stirring inside her cauldron which was billowing a navy smoke. Harry struggled to control the burning rage that flared in the pit of his stomach. His hands shook from the effort to keep from reaching into his robes and blandishing his wand at Snape's throat.

How many times Harry had regretted using that Potions book, he'd lost count. Regret was not a strong enough word for what he felt. Harry didn't think it possible that he could hate Snape any more than when Sirius had died. But he was wrong. To think that at one point he had actually sympathized with the Half-blood Prince made him want to vomit violently. Whatever Dumbledore had claimed, Harry did not believe for a split-second that Snape felt remorse for any of his past deeds. The passage of summer had not dampened any of his loathing and resentment against Snape, instead Harry let it wash over him like a raging tempest. It was easy to convince himself that Snape was chiefly responsible for his parents' and godfather's deaths when the wizard in question was petty enough to abuse his authority to torment him for his father's past indiscretions. It was much easier to perceive things in black and white, even if the world he lived in existed in shades of gray.

"It seems that your streak of 'glowing brilliance' as Slughorn called it, has run out at last," Severus surmised, smugly.

"It seems that having a better professor did the trick," Harry retorted, it was all he could do to keep from hexing the slimy git right then and there.

The black-haired Gryffindor heard Hermione gasp from his side, while Ron chocked out a chortle that he attempted to conceal halfway as a cough. Snape scowled, his face rapidly draining of whatever little color it had held.

"Detention, Potter. This Saturday night, my office. I won't stand for that kind of insolence in my classroom!"

"You've got to learn to control your temper! No matter what, he's still a professor, Harry," Hermione chided as they left the dingy dungeon for the much more welcoming Great Hall.

"You'd think he'd at least die from being DADA professor last year," said Harry darkly. That earned him a withering glare from Hermione.

"Did you see the look on Snape's face? And here I thought his skin could only turn sallow and sallower," Ron chuckled.

"You're not helping, Ron," Hermione snapped in a clipped voice as she seated herself at the Gryffindor table.

Harry sat beside Ron, biting into a buttered roll and feeling deeply relieved that the week was over.

"Wonder what Dumbledore's got planned for the lesson tomorrow," Ron mused after he had chugged two brimming glasses of pumpkin juice.

Harry turned to inspect the faculty table and shrugged when he found the center chair vacant for the tenth day in a row. Upon closer inspection, he saw that Professor McGonagall and Snape's seats were empty as well. "Guess we'll find out soon enough."

-

"Thank you Rubeus," said Dumbledore as the half-giant finished speaking. 

"I'm sorry 'bout tha', Professor—"

"It's alright, Rubeus. You did your best, that's all I can expect from you, all of you," Dumbledore quickly cut off the half-giant's mumbled apology, his voice grave as his clear blue eyes locked with Hagrid's remorseful beady black gaze.

The wizened wizard sighed imperceptibly as he gently patted the half-giant on his massive shoulder. The Hogwarts Gamekeeper appeared so disappointed in himself that the overall effect was almost comical. Had their current topic of discussion not been so vitally important to the survival of the wizarding world, Albus would have indeed found it an amusing sight. Unfortunately, the failure to negotiate the giants' withdrawal from their pact with Voldemort was no laughing matter. Turning his attention back on Hagrid, Dumbledore leveled him a reassuring smile. While the renowned Headmaster had always been counted as one of the more optimistic products of his times, neither was he considered delusional despite some understandable misgivings. It did not take a genius to deduce that the giants would once again elect to ally themselves with Voldemort.

The wizarding world had no one to blame but themselves for breeding the giants' innate mistrust of all things to do with wizards and magic. If it was not for the wizarding community's general prejudice and latent discrimination against all "part-humans", Albus was certain that Tom would be having a much more difficult time rallying the antiestablishment sentiments amongst the segregated outcasts of their world. Even if they were to win the war, the Headmaster knew with a heavy sense of foreboding that the wizarding community would still be leaving themselves vulnerable for further attempts at insurrection if things did not change for the better. The lack of electricity certainly wasn't the only sign that their world was woefully behind on the times. First things first, old boy, he firmly reminded himself. If they did not succeed, there may well not be a wizarding world left to enlighten.

"Kingsley, is there anything you wish to report?" Albus inquired the tall, bald black wizard who sat slouching in his chair towards the far end of the table.

"Besides the tube derailing, not much else. Unless, you want me to bore you with my recurring nightmares of drowning in memos and the perils of getting a paper cut a day," the Auror smirked and drawled in a deep, slow voice.

"At least you're being paid a bonus, Kingsley. That's more than us little people are getting," Tonks pointed out helpfully.

Albus smiled gratefully at the young, very junior Auror whose high spirits always seemed to bring some much needed levity to their otherwise solemn affair.

"Severus, any news on your front?" the Headmaster prompted as he turned to regard the Potions Master.

"I received a request from the Dark Lord to brew one barrel of Strengthening Potion this past week, which I have already sent off."

"Whatever for?" Arthur Weasley asked quizzically.

"The Dark Lord has not chosen to inform me of his intentions, though I presume that another attack isn't too far off a conjecture," Snape replied with a tilt of his head as he adressed the red-haired wizard.

The cutting quality to the Potions Master's voice made Arthur sound like a complete idiot for even posing the question, Albus thought. Yet, it was something that the Headmaster had found to be oh so endearing after many years of acquaintance. For someone who was so talented at disguising one's emotions, Severus would have surely benefited a great deal by concealing his general contempt from his fellow Order members. Thus, Albus had long since concluded that perhaps it was all a matter of not caring enough to make the effort.

"Well, I think that is everything of import, ladies and gents. Meeting adjourned," the wizened wizard spoke finally, rising from his chair at the head of the table.

Stroking his beard in thought, Albus watched with a small amount of wonder as the Order members slowly filed out from the dingy kitchen while Molly began bustling around to begin preparations for dinner with the help of Bill and Arthur. He could not put into words how fortunate he felt to be surrounded by such an eclectic group of witches and wizards who were smart enough to see the threat before them and courageous enough to take action against it. Sighing softly to himself, the wizened wizard reminded himself once again that they still possessed a fighting chance, as long as there were still fighters left for the cause.

"Sir, may I have a word."

Dumbledore hung back at the sound of the Potions Master's voice. "Certainly Severus, more than one, in fact. Shall we move off to some place more private?"

"Yes, please."

The Headmaster led the way up the creaky stairs onto the first floor landing. The pair swept quietly through the narrow hallway lined with Black family portraits, the crown jewel hidden behind gloomy moth-eaten curtains, and the row of house-elf head plaques. They ascended the steps to the second floor landing and entered into an unused guestroom redolent of musk and moth balls.

"Now, Severus, what is it?" Albus asked. He gingerly lowered his aching bones into an armchair with threadbare upholstery and paint peeling from its handles.

Snape inspected his seating options disdainfully and elected to remain standing. "Headmaster," he began, "it's concerning your American guest."

"Yes?"

"Why she was wandering in the Forbidden Forest at night, alone?" Severus inquired in a tone that clearly denoted of what he thought of that situation.

"Ah, Severus, I suspected you would be curious. But may I remind you that Eliza is not a Hogwarts student, thus the Forbidden Forest is not forbidden to her."

There was a pause. The Potions Professor waited for further explanation, which it did not to be forthcoming. He locked eyes with Dumbledore, who appeared perfectly content to maintain his silence.

Snape sighed in exasperation and pressed on, "The spell she spoke of—Quies Quietus, I've never heard of it before. Then, there's also the puzzling matter that both Madam Pomfrey and I found our wands ineffective against the girl. And the way she attacked you when she woke in the hospital wing. Who is she, Headmaster? Or better yet, _what_ is she?"

Albus nodded, unperturbed.

"I understand that you have questions, Severus. You have every right to be suspicious. However, it is not my place to answer them. Nevertheless, I promise you that Ms. Ashbery poses no danger to either the staff or student population. Rather, Hogwarts is considerably safer with her on its premises," he said enigmatically.

"May I at least ask why you invited her here?" Snape demanded in an irritated voice.

"Fair enough. I realize that now is perhaps not the best time to be playing host, but at the time I wasn't thinking of that. Eliza needed a change in scenery and I was happy to oblige. After all, she offered me the same not long ago. You worry over much, Severus. I do not believe any ill will come of her stay."

"Very well," Snape conceded. The Headmaster's responses had left him with more questions than what he had started with. "I hope your trust is not misplaced."

-

"Fizzing whizbees." 

Harry stepped on the moving spiral staircase as soon as the stone wall behind the gargoyle slid apart. He had been anxious to see Dumbledore all day. Harry knocked on the door.

"Come in, Harry," the Headmaster's airy voice floated through.

"Good evening," said Dumbledore as Harry entered the office, "have a seat."

"Thanks, sir."

Harry felt a great calmness suffuse his being as he saw the Headmaster sitting serenely his desk, chin resting upon long, thin fingers that were held together at the tips. At once, the black-haired Gryffindor noticed that Dumbledore's blackened hand had been restored to health.

"Dumbledore, your hand! It's better!" he gasped in surprise. After an entire year of the wizened wizard sporting the injury, Harry had long ago assumed that it was incurable.

"Ah, yes," Albus replied, glancing down at his own hand as if it had escaped his notice. "It feels marvelous to have a functional pair of hands."

"How did you—"

Albus chuckled in a pleased manner. "No, it wasn't me. I would have fixed it a lot sooner if I could."

"Then, who?" Harry asked in growing puzzlement. It didn't seem likely that there was another witch or wizard with greater magical capability than his Headmaster. And certainly Voldemort would have been none-too-willing to lend his comparable powers in aid.

"A very kind-hearted and generous friend, though we haven't time to get into that." He smiled at Harry, who waited for him to elaborate. But the Headmaster was already moving on to the next topic. "I hear that Severus has given you a detention already," Dumbledore began conversationally. "I've taken the liberty of rescheduling it to next Saturday," he smiled.

"Er—thanks sir," Harry shifting awkwardly in his chair. He could care less about receiving another detention from Snape, but felt oddly guilty about it in front of Dumbledore.

"Another detention and I daresay it's a tradition," Albus remarked, his clear blues eyes gleaming behind half-moon spectacles.

"I suppose," replied Harry, not knowing what else to say.

"How were your first three weeks of class?"

"Alright," Harry answered quickly, eager to move on to more pertinent topics. He looked around the familiar circular office idly, eyes lingering momentarily on the cabinet beside the door that held the Headmaster's pensieve.

"I expect you are curious about the content of our new lessons?" the Headmaster inquired as if he had read Harry's mind.

Harry's eyes snapped back to Dumbledore, "Yes, sir."

"We will focus on more practical matters this term, as there are no more memories to share—"

Harry's interest was piqued. He sat up straighter in his seat, listening with rapt attention.

"—I understand that your Occlumency sessions with Severus left something to be desired—"

"That's one way to put it," Harry muttered under his breath, not bothering to conceal the contempt he felt toward his least favorite professor.

Albus continued in his easy-going tone, pretending he hadn't heard Harry's last comment. "So, I have decided to teach you myself, along with several other quintessential skills."

"Are you going to be teaching me spells?" Harry asked hurriedly, excitement blooming with each word.

"No, Harry. It is my sincerest belief that the education provided here at Hogwarts is more than sufficient for any young witch or wizard. Rather, we will work to build upon that foundation."

"I don't understand, sir—" Harry frowned. His heart sank a little at the thought that he wouldn't be learning any advanced counter-curses or powerful anti-jinxes. What exactly was Dumbledore talking about?

"A vast store of magical knowledge does not a great wizard make, although it certainly helps in most cases. In the end, it truly comes down to instinct, concentration, and control. You, Harry, are already quite gifted in the former, so I shall help with the latter areas."

Harry nodded, not sure how Dumbledore was going to go about teaching him concentration and control when he was still having trouble with nonverbal spellwork in his classes. Nonetheless, he felt reassured. Dumbledore's ideas were not always the sanest, but most were ingenious.

"Now, if you have no more questions, Harry, let us begin. We have much to do and little time."

-

She was walking through the dark, a bleak hallway adorned with only flickering torchlight. The dim pools of light illuminated cells on either side of the corridor. The figures behind the bars blended into the murky grayness but for their faded black and white striped suits. Five guards stood watch at various lengths along the hallway; two were conversing quietly with their heads close together. Buffy turned over on her side, eyes moving beneath closed lids.

A series of loud cracking noises broke the eerie silence of the corridor. Black shapes materialized out of thin air, two dozen figures masked by slitted hoods. Then, the massacre began. The nearest guard gave a shout as he was struck with a stream of fiery red light. The other guards rallied against the black swathed intruders, but they were woefully outnumbered and unprepared even as reinforcements arrived. Buffy swung a fist at the burly cloaked figure that was advancing on a guard already engaged in battle with another, but her entire arm went through without contact.

"No!" Buffy whispered helplessly as the first figure in black made several vicious slices through the air with his wand. Long, bloody slashes carved into the guard's torso. His screams pierced through the air, terrified beyond any concern for masculinity. It was the sound of a man being murdered.

Buffy's head whipped around as woman's scream of maniacal laughter drowned out the dying wizard's wails. A hooded woman stepped over the corpse of another guard that lay sprawled in the middle of the corridor, not caring to look down as the heel of her boot smashed a finger. She raised her wand at the last remaining guard. "_Avada Kedavra!_"

A jet of green light sailed through the air from the tip of her wand. It was at once eerie and beautiful. The last guard's eyes flew wide with shock as he was blasted backwards into a wall. Buffy watched, sickened, as his body slid down to the cold stone floor, his eyes were already glazed over with death and his mouth slack. The woman clapped her thin hands together as she cackled with delirious glee, eyes glinting madly through the slits of her hood. "Let's get what we came for!"


	13. The General

**Author's Note:** The flashback quotes are taken from 'Selfless' (BtVS season 7). Thanks once again to my betas Vkky and Katilwen! Please review! 

  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
Fight

Red drips from my chin where I have been eating.   
Not all the blood, nowhere near all, is wiped off my mouth.   
Clots of red mess my hair   
And the tiger, the buffalo, know how.   
I was a killer.

Yes, I am a killer.   
I come from killing.   
I go to more.

I drive red joy ahead of me from killing.   
Red gluts and red hungers run in the smears and juices   
of my inside bones:

The child cries for a suck mother and I cry for war.

Carl Sandburg   
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-

**13. The General**

-

Buffy's eyes snapped open. The face of the dying prison guard remained emblazoned on her mind. Had it just been a bad dream? She lay very still and shut her eyes tightly. If she could be very honest with herself—and these last few years had made her nothing if not honest—she knew she hadn't been dreaming at all. It was her destiny calling—something she had been expecting for quite some time now in the back of her mind. Somehow, she doubted the meddlesome higher powers had been getting their money's worth by allowing her to laze about for three months straight, doing little more than global Slaying tours whenever the mood struck her. The Slayer rubbed her face wearily with her hands. Buffy glanced down at her watch; it was only 10:42 p.m. She sighed and pushed aside the heavy _Encyclopedia of Wandless Magic_ text that she must have fallen asleep reading.

She pulled herself up from the leather sofa and ventured barefoot through the open French doors onto the balcony. Buffy propped her elbows on the railing, taking in the spectacular view Angel's high-rise condominium afforded her. All of Paris glittered beneath her, a metropolis brimming with the hypnotic activity of life. It should have been a pleasure, but Buffy ignored it. The sights were what normal people could enjoy. Paris was a city for lovers, dreamers, aspiring artists and musicians, businessmen, tourists, and the like. It had been a long time since she had considered herself any of those things.

Buffy walked back inside, shedding clothes as she went. She stopped inside the master bedroom's closet, standing in front of the floor-length mirror in a camisole and underwear. Already, her arms and legs were wirier and her cheekbones more pronounced, Buffy observed absently while pulling on boots, jeans, and a light jacket. The petite blonde supposed the physical change was probably the result of a combination of her constant sleep deprivation and erratic eating pattern, however neither concerned her much. Unfortunately, a Slayer was made from tougher stuff. Buffy strode over to the chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out a sword, several knives, and half a dozen stakes. She waved a hand over them and stuffed the miniaturized assortment of weapons into her pocket. With a soft pop, she was gone.

Buffy showered and dressed quickly after apparating back into her Hogwarts suite. She figured she should make an appearance after a two week absence. Saying a brief greeting to Madam Puddlemere on the way out, the blonde Slayer left in search of food. Buffy gazed up at the enchanted ceiling as she entered. The sky was overcast with heavy, gray clouds, threatening a downpour. She drew many stares as she crossed the entrance. Harry and Ron waved her over from the Gryffindor table and Buffy joined them at the long wooden bench.

"Morning Eliza!" Harry greeted as she sat down next to him, trying very hard not to let his eyes drift over the blonde's crisp dress shirt, on which she had left the top two buttons temptingly undone.

"It's the first time we've seen you at breakfast," Hermione observed from across the table, peering over _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7_, which she had propped against a large pitcher of orange juice.

"I'm not a morning person," Buffy said simply.

"Where did you go off to again last week?" Ron asked after discreetly checking her out.

"Paris and Cairo mostly," Buffy replied while reaching over for the pot of coffee and pouring herself a cup.

"So you've been going out of the country then?" Harry inquired.

"Yeah," Buffy shrugged in nonchalance, "It's not like Dumbledore's holding me as prisoner here."

"Wicked!" Ron approved enthusiastically, remembering how much fun he'd had during his family trip to Egypt four summers ago.

"Your knuckles are bleeding!" Hermione gasped as Buffy raised the coffee cup to her lips.

"Oh."

Harry grabbed her unused left hand and held it over the table, tenderly running over the bloody and bare knuckles with his thumb. "How did you hurt yourself?" he asked with concern; it was the second time he had seen her turn up with unexplained injuries.

Buffy was saved from answering by the rustle of fluttering wings as more than a hundred owls suddenly streamed into the Great Hall. She surreptitiously pulled her hand back from Harry's grasp as a tawny owl swooped over their heads and dropped a roll of newspaper onto Hermione's lap.

"Anyone die today?" Ron asked uneasily as Hermione unfurled a copy of the_ Daily Prophet_.

"There's been a breakout at Azkaban!" Hermione yelped.

Hermione paled visibly as she cleared out a space on the table to spread the newspaper. Harry and Ron shared a worried look as they bent over the front page, which displayed a large photograph of an empty prison cell whose bars had been violently blasted apart. Buffy's appetite vanished. It was the same place she had dreamed. Several other Gryffindors leaned over and listened with anxious faces as Hermione began reading aloud the headline news.

_**DEATH EATER ATTACK ON AZKABAN: MASS OUTBREAK ENSUES!** _

_Late yesterday evening, an undetermined number of Death Eaters stormed the  
Azkaban fortress, the wizarding prison, inciting a mass outbreak. The Ministry  
of Magic confirmed today that nine Aurors were killed during the incident (see  
page 5 for details), many more injured. _

_"We ask the magical community to remain calm but cautious," said a grim-faced   
Rufus Scrimgeour, the newly instated Minister of Magic, "and rest assured that  
the Ministry is doing all it can to apprehend the perpetrators and fugitives." _

_The attack was allegedly led by former escapee and You-Know-Who's right hand,   
Bellatrix Lestrange. Earlier this morning, Minister Scrimgeour's assistant secretary  
issued a list of all fugitives at large (see page 3), the most notably dangerous of  
whom were high-security Death Eaters caught last year at the London Ministry  
of Magic. The Ministry explicitly warns all to avoid confrontation with said es-  
capees and to contact its offices immediately in the event of a sighting._

"This is _horrible_," Hermione uttered unsteadily as she finished, locking reddening eyes with Harry and Ron.

"Check to see if Tonks and Kingsley are on the Aurors list," Harry urged gravely.

Hermione ripped open the newspaper to page five, which was filled by nine square black-and-white identity photographs with obituaries underneath, each showing a smiling or grinning witch or wizard. "They're not dead," she breathed after a hasty perusal.

"Well, at least that's good," Ron ventured on weakly.

Buffy pushed away her plate of syrup-smothered pancakes as Hermione turned to page three to inspect the mug shots of the escaped prisoners. The blonde Slayer glanced around the Great Hall to see groups of Hogwarts students huddled round various copies of the _Prophet_, most looking worried, scared, or both. Only the Slytherin table seemed relatively unaffected; Draco Malfoy and his coterie even appeared suspiciously smugger than usual. Finally, her gaze fell on the faculty table to find Dumbledore and McGonagall conversing urgently.

"Scrimgeour's about as useless as Fudge if he keeps telling people to rest assured," Harry snarled, his lips twisting into a dark scowl.

"Well, what choice does he have?" countered Hermione as she put down the newspaper with a note of finality. "He can't very well risk wide panic now when we're at open war. It's bad enough that people are already dropping left and right or running for the hills."

Harry let out a ragged breath, his green eyes darting around the Great Hall. Hermione was right; every House had lost students this term from over-worried parents or worse. His muscles clenched so taut that Buffy could literally feel him shaking against her with unspoken frustration. The black-haired Gryffindor felt like a helpless child tucked away in the safety of Hogwarts, while The Order members and Aurors were fighting for the cause out there and dying. He absolutely _despised_ the feeling of being useless. More than anything, Harry was eagerly awaiting the day that Dumbledore discovered another of the three remaining Horcruxes. The Boy Who Lived just wanted it over with, all of it, so he could finally kill the wizard-gone-bad with a bloody Hitler complex and avenge his parents' deaths once and for all—that or die trying.

"I _hate_ this," Ron grumbled, unwittingly vocalizing Harry's exact sentiments.

The remainder of the meal passed without any conversation between Buffy and the trio, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Buffy rose up abruptly from the table as the bell rang, signaling the end of breakfast. She had reached a decision.

Harry glanced up at her, startled by her celerity of movement, "Where are you going? Will you be in class today?"

"I have to talk to Dumbledore," she answered distractedly, "Don't know if I'll be in class."

Harry's watched puzzled as Eliza's petite blonde retreating form as he let himself be pulled along the tide of exiting fellow students. The girl seemed to take on a different personality with every encounter.

-

"Dumbledore, can we talk?"

Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall looked up at the sound of Buffy's voice. Buffy cast the Transfiguration Professor a smile and Minerva inclined her head in return.

"Certainly, my dear," said Albus, rising from his chair and bidding the various teachers farewell. "To my office, then?" he asked.

"Yeah," Buffy nodded.

"Now, what's on your mind?" Albus asked as the two seated themselves on opposite sides of his majestic office table.

"I want to join the Order."

The Headmaster's aged face registered surprise for a split-second, but he quickly recovered.

"How did you find out?"

"Don't worry, nobody blabbed. Despite being blonde, I can read, you know. I've been following up on your Order of the Phoenix, Harry Potter, and Moldywart for a while now."

Dumbledore let out a chuckle at Buffy's priceless butchering of Lord Voldemort's name before saying evenly, "I cannot ask you to get involved in a war that is not your own."

"You're not asking, I'm offering," she replied, equally calm, looking him straight in the eye.

Albus studied the seemingly delicate blonde sitting in front of him, his penetrating blue eyes boring into her hazel ones. "Are you sure that you are ready? It hasn't been long since..."

It was so simple, just a mention of the event. Not even that, really. But Buffy felt hot tears sting the back of her throat. Her meticulously erected dam threatened to overflow. She tore her gaze away from the Headmaster. It was too much to have him look at her with those startling blue eyes, fathomless and wise.

Albus watched the flood of emotions play across the blonde Slayer's features as she studiously avoided his gaze. He understood it was difficult for Buffy to open up; that the harder things became, the more she withdrew into herself. Ordinarily, he would have let her be. But now was not the time.

"Buffy."

The soft utterance of her name reverberated throughout the circular office. It was disconcerting to hear her name spoken after so long. Buffy slowly met his gaze then, feeling at once the steadfast affection he felt for her. She was suddenly struck with the realization that Dumbledore was _there_. Buffy sat there for a long time, just staring at him in wonder while Albus waited. Then, she began.

"No matter how hard I try to hide it, I'm not okay. I know that you know. For the first few days, all I thought about was how I could finish myself off once and for all as a grand 'fuck you' to the Powers. And then you show up at the funeral and invite me to come here. And I'm thinking 'Hmm, I probably shouldn't commit suicide in front of him, it would be bad manners as a guest.'"

Buffy recalled with a grimace the look on Lorne's face the night he had found her passed out in his bathroom in a tub full of blood-tinted water. Her voice grew hoarse and so faint that Dumbledore had to strain his ears to make out her words.

"Most nights, I feel like the world is closing in on me and I just want to fade away into oblivion." Her voice broke.

"But I'm getting better," Buffy added a brief moment later. She did not want Dumbledore to worry about her unnecessarily on top of everything else.

Fawkes who had been observing the exchange intently, gave a soothing trill and landed lightly on her lap. Buffy stroked his feathers absently, feeling some of the emptiness leave her body upon contact.

"Where have you been disappearing off to for weeks on end?"

"Everywhere, really."

"Why?" Dumbledore prodded.

"To cope. I've kinda been wailing on every unlucky demon that happens to cross my path. The slaying—it makes things easier."

"I see," he paused. "Still, I must remind you that this is not a war waged against demons. Our enemies are our own kind. Are you prepared to take a human life?"

A faraway look drifted over Buffy's features as her mind traveled back to another time and place.

"She's not the Anya that you knew, Xander. She's a demon."

"That doesn't mean you have to kill her," Xander returned, becoming very bothered.

"Don't act like this is easy for me. You know it's not," the Slayer tried to reason with him.

"There are other options," he pointed out.

"I've considered them," Buffy said quietly but with an air of finality.

Xander appeared extremely upset then, his volume increasing incredulously with each word. "When? Just now? Took you all of ten seconds to decide to kill one of your best friends?" He was yelling by the end.

"The thought that it might come to this has occurred to me before. It's occurred to you, too," the blonde stated with the characteristic stoicism she had developed over the years.

The brown-haired man shook his head helplessly, feeling completely useless as he frantically tried to prevent one of his best friends from killing the love of his life. "But we can change what she did. Fix it. These are mystical deaths, right? There has to be something," he protested, looking towards his other best friend sitting on the couch with pleading eyes.

She realized then that she was antagonizing one of the closest people she had left in the world, and she hated herself just a little bit more for it. Still, she persisted, because if she didn't take a stand, no one would. It didn't matter that Anya had been a peripheral member of the Scooby gang for years now or that anyone could plainly see Xander was still in love with the flamboyant Vengeance Demon, because this went beyond the bounds of friendship. As the Slayer, Buffy did not have the discretion of granting personal favors to her friends or even her family. Especially not as the Slayer. No one else, maybe except for Faith, knew how precariously she balanced on the edge of doing what was right and doing what she wanted. There was great darkness lying within her, Dracula had not been wrong about that, and it was becoming harder to ignore everyday. It would have been so easy to stop fighting as hard, to stop caring as much.

Shaking her head resolutely, Buffy pushed away that temptation. She couldn't afford to slip into that place again, not now—not ever. "Xander, I know this is hard for you to hear, but it's what I have to do."

He scoffed bitterly at that, spitting out his words. "Hard for me to hear? Buffy, you wanna kill Anya!"

"I don't want to," she protested earnestly.

"Then don't! This isn't new ground for us. When our friends go all crazy and start killing people, we help them," he pleaded.

"It's different," Buffy sighed.

"Because you don't care about her the same way I do. Buffy, I still love her," Xander argued back, his voice strained as he spoke the last words.

Buffy's faced softened momentarily in response, but she refused to be deterred. "I know. And that's why you can't see this for what it really is. Anya's a demon."

"And you're the Slayer," Xander bit back acerbically. "I see now how it's all very simple," he added in a scathing drawl.

"It is never simple," Buffy returned, becoming frustrated by their escalating argument. She didn't have time for this.

"No, of course not." He rose from the couch and commenced to pace in angry, stilted strides. "You know," Xander began, turning furious eyes on the blonde, "if there's a mass-murdering demon that you're, oh, say, BONING, then it's all gray area."

Buffy flinched at his dig. His careless words always cut her so deep. "Spike was harmless. He was helping."

"He had no choice."

"And Anya did! She chose to become a demon. Twice," she argued back. Even he couldn't deny that fact.

"You have no idea what she's going through," he protested weakly.

"I don't care what she's going through!" Buffy said as she rose to her feet as well, exasperation showing in her voice.

"No, of course not. You think we haven't seen all this before? The part where you just cut us all out. Just step away from everything human and act like you're the law," Xander shouted in an accusatory tone. "If you knew what I felt—"

"I killed Angel!" Buffy silenced his ranting. "Do you even remember that? I would have given up everything I had to be with— I loved him more than I will ever love anything in this life. And I put a sword through his heart because I had to," she said in a pained voice.

"And that all worked out okay," Willow muttered from the couch, trying futilely to break up some of the tension that had settled in between the pair.

"Do you remember cheering me on?" Buffy continued, her hazel eyes boring into Xander's brown ones. Far be it for her to dig up the old skeletons in the closet, but she had to make them see. "Both of you. Do you remember giving me Willow's message: kick his ass?"

"I never said that—" Willow protested from her spot on the couch, glancing at Xander suspiciously.

"This is different—" Xander interrupted quickly, not wanting either of the girls to discover his little act of deception.

"It is always different! It's always complicated," Buffy countered, her voice forceful before it slowly turned somber as she put into words what she had realized long ago, but had never wanted to admit—not even to herself. "And at some point, someone has to draw the line, and that is always going to be me. You get down on me for cutting myself off, but in the end the Slayer is always cut off. There's no mystical guidebook. No all-knowing council. Human rules don't apply. There's only me. I am the law."

She remembered the look of ensuing hurt and betrayal flickering in Xander's eyes as clearly as if it were yesterday. It was one of those few moments during her friendship with the Scoobies when she hadn't bothered to hold her tongue in check. She had told them a little truth that night, and it had been apparently too much. It was so easy for them, because they were so young and innocent in a way. Xander had never killed another human being before. And Willow—Willow wasn't really herself when she had flambéed Warren nor when she had attempted to end the world—or at least that was what they had all told themselves. Prepared to take a human life? God, she had been prepared to sacrifice _anyone_ against The First. She remembered denying to Spike at one point that she was a killer. Buffy harbored no delusions about that fact now.

When Buffy's eyes refocused on Albus again, they were cold and hard. The very air around her seemed to shift. Fawkes stirred and retreated back to the relative safety of his perch. In that moment, Buffy Summers was beautiful and terrible to behold. Had it been any other wizard sitting in the Headmaster's position, he would have found it very difficult to fight the urge to look away. When she spoke again, there was a hard edge to her voice that he was unaccustomed to hearing.

"I know that I have the power to destroy. At the end of the day, I'm the one who has to make a cold-blooded decision about who to kill and who to spare. I've lived with that responsibility for eleven years now—knowing the world is affected by the consequences of my actions. So, yeah, I'm prepared to do what's needed. And it's not like I've never killed a man before."

Then almost as an afterthought, she added, "Besides, I dreamt about the prison break last night. I must be here for a reason."

Dumbledore leaned backwards in his chair, running a hand over his silver beard pensively. He looked hard at the tiny blonde, marveling at the nobility of her spirit and the generosity of her nature. Years of adversity and heartbreak had tempered her into an indomitable warrior. What was miraculous was that she had somehow managed to hang on to her sanity and capacity to love through it all. Albus realized then that it had been foolish to ever believe himself capable of sheltering the dear girl from the world, even for a little while. At last, he understood that Buffy Summers would stumble, and hurt, and be tested beyond human endurance just by the very nature of who she was and what she did. Regardless of the friends and lovers that surrounded her, in the end she still had to go it alone—always alone. So Albus resolved to do the only thing he could. He would be her good friend along the way.

"It's settled then," he relented. "I admit that we are in desperate need of help, and yours would be an invaluable asset. There will be a meeting tonight to address the Azkaban outbreak, I shall introduce you then."

He paused, eyes softening. "You must know that when I invited you here, I had no intention of involving you in any way. I just wanted to help," Albus said sincerely.

Buffy smiled, touched, "People like me don't have the luxury of sitting idly on the sidelines. I'm a Slayer, Dumbledore. Giles trained me to be the general—and now I can't seem to get out of that role."

"I don't suppose I need to spell out the risks involved in becoming a member?" he deadpanned, grinning.

Somehow, Dumbledore always seemed to know exactly what to say to cheer her up. And for that, the blonde Slayer was exceedingly grateful. A hysterical bout of laughter burst forth and lit up Buffy's face, and she looked once more like the carefree teenage girl he knew she was not. Fawkes ruffled his feathers approvingly on his perch. When Buffy finally caught her breath, she gazed back at the wizened wizard with bright eyes, her mouth curling up into a half-smile. It felt good.

"I've died _three_ times, Dumbledore. You're not gonna scare me off with a few fun facts on occupational hazards."


	14. Grim Old Place

**Author's Note:** As always questions, comments, suggestions, and even criticisms give me ideas and help me to write better. So, if you have time, please leave a review. Thanks to my betas! 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed

As soon as Fred gets out of bed,  
his underwear goes on his head.  
His mother laughs, "Don't put it there,  
a head's no place for underwear!"  
But near his ears, above his brains,  
is where Fred's underwear remains.

At Night when Fred goes back to bed,  
he deftly plucks it off his head.  
His mother switches off the light  
and softly croons, "Good night! Good night!"  
And then, for reasons no one knows,  
Fred's underwear goes on his toes.

Jack Prelutsky  
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-

**14. Grim Old Place**

-

Buffy strummed her fingers idly on Dumbledore's enormous claw-footed desk as she waited for the Headmaster to emerge from his inner chambers. Gazing out of one the office's large windows overlooking the neighboring mountains, the petite blonde let out a bored sigh and turned her attention back to the wizened wizard's odd assortment of puffing and whirling silver instruments that resided on a number of spindle-legged tables around the circular room. To her side, Fawkes' golden perch lay empty; the majestic phoenix was probably out stretching his wings. As the sun began setting across the sky, Albus finally appeared carrying a fluffy white quill in his newly restored hand.

"I thought it best for us to use a portkey tonight," he said with a small smile at the look of impatience on the Slayer's face, lifting the quill. "I'm afraid some of the Order members won't be able to handle the shock of seeing you apparate directly into headquarters. Supposedly no one can apparate into or out from the building, just like Hogwarts."

Buffy blinked as she got to her feet. "So _that's_ why you told not to apparate in front of anyone here!"

"Yes, of course." The Headmaster grinned. "Now hold on to this—_fiddle-fuddle_."

Buffy briefly felt the familiar tug on her navel before they landed softly in the middle of a small square. It was drizzling lightly and a chilly breeze swept over the pair as Dumbledore rummaged for something in the folds of his voluminous cloak. The petite blonde pulled her coat tighter around her body as she surveyed their dismal surroundings. What a dump. The place looked like one of the slum neighborhoods she had driven past when she lived in L.A. The three-story houses on either side of the square were run-down, some with peeling paint and others with boarded-up windows.

"Oho!" Albus muttered as he took out what looked like a normal silver cigarette lighter.

Buffy's eyebrows shot up. "I didn't know you smoked, Dumbledore. That's really bad for your health... unless you're a vampire or something."

"I don't." The wizened wizard winked at her and clicked the lighter a dozen times in rapid succession. All the streetlamps in the square then went out with a dozen pops, bathing them in darkness but for the pale sliver of moon overhead. "It's a Put-Outer, quite handy. Follow me," Dumbledore instructed.

Buffy followed him closely as they trekked over the grassy lawn of the square and across the opposite street. They came to a stop on a block of cracked pavement. The veteran Slayer stared fixedly ahead at the space between numbers eleven and thirteen, Grimmauld Place.

"The headquarters is concealed by a Fidelus Charm among other things," Albus explained, handing her a small piece of parchment paper.

"I can see it, Dumbledore. Sometimes the edges get a little fuzzy, but it's definitely there," Buffy breathed as she stared fixedly at the space in between numbers eleven and thirteen.

"Remarkable," Albus murmured to himself and he led the blonde Slayer up the decrepit, cracked stone steps.

Instead of using the silver knocker in the shape of a twisted serpent, the elderly Headmaster withdrew his wand and tapped on the grungy black-painted door once, which creaked open after a series of loud, metallic clicks and rattling of chains. Then, Albus clicked the Put-Outer a dozen times again before he ushered them through the threshold and into a dimly lit, narrow corridor. Buffy decided then that she liked the outside better as she took in the faded, flaking wallpaper; threadbare carpet; cobwebby light fixtures; and the serpent-shaped candelabra dangling from the center of the ceiling which made the Slayer suspect that whoever was the owner of the estate probably nursed a monster of a snake obsession.

The door farthest down the corridor opened to reveal a twenty-something year-old witch with dark twinkling eyes, a pale heart-shaped face, and short spiky hair in a vibrant shade of pink.

"Wotcher, Dumbledore!" she whispered in a relaxed, informal tone as she strode up to them, her eyes stopping on the small blonde standing next to the wizened wizard. "Who's this?" she asked curiously.

"Good evening, Tonks. This is Elizabeth Ashbery, the newest inductee into the Order. Will you do me the favor of showing her around?" he replied in hushed tones.

"Sure thing! C'mon, then," she motioned for Buffy to follow her back down the hallway as Dumbledore slipped through the door from where Tonks had come.

"There's not much to see, really. Just some spare bedrooms on the second and third floors," said Tonks as they reached the second floor landing. "Nobody stays here except for Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys sometimes during the summer and winter holidays."

"Are the Weasleys Ron's family?" Buffy asked as they climbed up to the third floor and surveyed a large room with huge grey feathers scattered all over the hardwood flooring.

"Yeah, they're fantastic people, the whole lot! Well, except maybe for Percy," Tonks added in a dark undertone through the corner of her mouth.

Buffy frowned. The veteran Slayer had no idea who the young pink-haired witch was talking about. Opting to change the subject, she asked, "Why is the floor covered in feathers?"

Tonks seemed to sober up immediately, "Sirius used to live up here with his Hippogriff, Buckbeak. This is his family estate. He was my cousin and Harry's godfather."

"Oh," Buffy muttered. She hadn't failed to notice Tonks' use of 'was' in referring to Serious. She was sorry to have brought it up.

Luckily, distraction came in the form of an old grandfather clock chiming somewhere on the first floor.

"It's six! We'd better go down. The meetings are held downstairs in the kitchen," Tonks explained as they made their way down two flights of rickety stairs.

"And afterwards, Mrs. Weasley always cooks us dinner," Tonks whispered with a smile in her voice as they crept along the first floor corridor.

"Why do we have to whisper in this hallway?" Buffy asked curiously.

Tonks turned her head back to glance at the small blonde, "Because—"

**_C R A S H._**

Buffy watched helplessly as the pink-haired witch flew face-first onto the floor. Tonks climbed to her feet and tugged the heavy, hollow troll leg back to its resting place along the wall, grumbling, "That stupid brolly stand, if I trip over that thing ONE MORE TIME—"

The pink-haired witch's head turned sharply to stare in abject horror as the velvet moth-eaten curtains they had just passed flew apart, revealing a life-sized painting of an old woman in a black cap with taut yellowing skin. Buffy unconsciously took a step back and scrunched up her nose as the crazed old woman in the painting began screaming and howling and ranting and raving at the tops of her lungs.

"_Filthy scum! Half-breeds, Muggle-loving blood-traitors!_" Mrs. Black's eyes settled on Buffy and lingered disdainfully on her blatantly Muggle dress, "_Who are you? Be gone you mangy Muggle, you inferior breed! How dare you defile the abode of my forefathers! Yo—_"

The rest of her blood-curdling, ear-splitting screech was abruptly cut off as the entire section of the wall where her portrait was hung blasted apart. Chunks of rubble sailed ever which way and waves of thick dust and debris billowed high into the air. The rest of the occupants of number twelve Grimmauld Place clambered up from the basement kitchen and rushed into the hallway to see a gaping hole in the place where Mrs. Black's portrait once stood, and Tonks and a young petite blonde covered head-to-toe in small bits of wall.

"Oops," the unfamiliar blonde muttered sheepishly to the speechless, gobsmacked crowd that had gathered in the now packed hallway.

The echoing stillness was punctured by an angry, muffled mumbling coming from somewhere underneath all the wreckage.

"Well... that's certainly one way to get around a Permanent Sticking Charm," smirked a tall black wizard, finally breaking the awkward silence.

"Come along, dears. I'll help you two get cleaned up," spoke a short, plump motherly-looking, redheaded witch, who stepped forward and swiftly led Tonks and Buffy away.

-

Buffy smoothed down an invisible wrinkle on her newly spotless shirt. She was really lucky that Mrs. Weasley's cleansing spells worked on her clothes, but had opted to clean up her face and hair by herself, not wanting awkward questions to come up when she'd already blown up a wall in the Order's secret headquarters. The veteran Slayer stared at her reflection in the grimy antique bathroom mirror, knowing very well that she was biding her time locked up in a dingy second-floor bathroom instead of going downstairs to the meeting already underway.

A soft knock sounded on the door followed by Dumbledore's voice. "Eliza, are you ready, my dear?"

She opened the door to find the wizened wizard waiting patiently outside, his brilliant blue eyes glittering madly as if he had just been privy to some hilarious inside joke.

"At least you gotta give me props for the worst first impression ever, right?" she babbled, "Destructo Girl strikes again. Buffy slayed the bad painting—" Glancing up at the Headmaster, Buffy continued on guiltily, "I'm really sorry about the wall. I'll help you guys fix it later or I can pay for the damages or—"

"That won't be necessary," Albus hastily interrupted as he gently squeezed her arm. "On the contrary, you've done us a great service by getting rid of that infernal portrait." He grinned with satisfaction. "I daresay that a few people will even be lining up to buy you a drink for that. I'm sorry to have missed it myself."

Buffy obligingly followed him down the creaky staircase; she stopped at the foot of the stairs, surprised to see the hallway already cleared and the wall whole again (minus the painting). She took a deep breath as Albus held open for her the door leading downstairs. The veteran Slayer studied the motley crew crammed into folding chairs all around the long wooden table as she and Dumbledore filed into the gloomy, cavernous room. All heads turned toward the pair as the Headmaster settled into the chair at the head of the table and indicated for Buffy to take the seat to his right. She didn't recognize any of the members' somber faces except for McGonagall; a sneering Snape; Tonks; the kind, redheaded witch who had helped her to tidy up; and Lupin who had a huge, indulgent grin plastered across his face.

"Let us continue then," announced Dumbledore in an official tone, drawing everyone's attention away from the petite blonde at his side. "Second order of business: I'd like to introduce our newest member, Elizabeth Ashbery," he said, inclining his head towards Buffy. "Everyone, please introduce yourselves."

The thin middle-aged wizard with balding red hair next to Buffy began first. "Arthur Weasley," he said in a friendly voice, patting the familiar kind-faced, red-headed witch's hand beside him, "and this is my wife Molly Weasley."

"Hello, dear!" Mrs. Weasley smiled brightly.

"Bill Weasley," said the tall wizard with long red hair pulled to a ponytail and a small shark tooth dangling from one ear. Several ragged scars marred his face, but they didn't seem to detract from his good looks.

"I'm George Weasley," beamed the first of two identical lanky young wizards with flaming red hair, giving her an appreciative once-over.

"And I'm Fred Weasley." The second twin winked. "If you ever mix us up, just call us Gred and Forge."

"We won't mind," continued George.

"You can call us anytime, actually," added Fred cheekily.

Buffy arched a finely shaped eyebrow at that. She could tell those two would be a lot of fun to be around.

"Great job blowing up Mrs. Black."

"For that, you deserve a drink—"

"Or ten. It's on us—"

"Call it a date?"

Buffy let out an amused giggle and was about to reply when Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat irritably. The twins shut up at once.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt," the tall black wizard who had commented on Buffy's demolition act earlier spoke in a deep, slow voice.

"Just Tonks," said the pink-haired witch. "You don't want to know my first name," she added with a shudder.

"We've already met," said Professor Lupin, smiling.

"Hestia Jones."

"Mundungus."

"Dedalus Diggle."

Buffy's attention began to wander as the introductions continued down the line. She was never good with names anyway. The blonde Slayer continued to smile and nod absently until a low, gravelly voice broke her out of her reverie. "Alastor Moody," said a tough-looking wizard with long grizzly grey hair and a network of scars on his face. But what drew her interest were his mismatched eyes. One was dark and beady while the other was large, round, an electric shade of blue, and spinning around in all directions inside the socket. Buffy had to bite on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing as an image of Xander with a whizzing magical eye popped into her mind. By the time Buffy shook herself of that mental picture, the introductions had winded down to Minvera McGonagall, who was seated to Dumbledore's left.

"Now, then. I have asked Elizabeth to join us—"

"Something's off about her," Moody growled suddenly. "The girl's more than she seems."

Buffy's eyes flitted to Dumbledore.

Crap, she groaned inwardly.

Not to worry, my dear.

The petite blonde's eyes widened as they locked with the Headmaster's. You can hear me!

Of course. I forgot to mention earlier that I suspected you might possess telepathic abilities as well. But never mind that now. I'll handle this.

"I promise you that Ms. Ashbery is not a Death Eater in disguise, Alastor," Dumbledore looked at Moody straight in the eye. He paused. "However, she is a wandless witch."

The room was in an instant uproar. Buffy chewed on her lower lip at the rather enthusiastic reaction. She had been sure that Dumbledore would tell them about her being a Slayer instead.

"Blimey!" George exclaimed excitedly, looking as if he had just met Merlin himself.

"Wow! Are you really?" asked Fred in awe.

"A wandless witch," chorused the twins, gawking at her.

Buffy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the twins weren't the only ones ogling her like some prized zoo animal. Dumbledore held up a hand and immediately everyone quieted down. The wizened wizard leveled Moody a significant look, who held his gaze for several long seconds before nodding imperceptibly and turning away.

"Elizabeth is currently staying at Hogwarts at my invitation. I ask everyone here to please refrain from mentioning her outside of headquarters. It would be unwise to alert Voldemort to the presence of such a powerful ally on our side. Now, let's hear your report on the werewolf community, Remus," Albus prompted.

Buffy frowned at the sight of several Order members wincing involuntarily at the mention of Moldywart's name. Unchecked, irrational fear of an enemy was never a good thing. In fact, it usually equaled a death knell as far as she was concerned. Sitting back in her chair, the Slayer listened intently as Lupin recounted the state of his negotiations with Fenrir Greyback. For a split-second, she almost felt as if she were back in the Sunnydale High School Library being lectured to by a stuffy Giles again. Except, she was somehow taking in every word this time around. The fond illusion was shattered when she felt two pairs of penetrating eyes trained on her. Not even bothering to confirm her suspicions, Buffy knew that the scrutiny came from none other than Moody and Snape.

"—Not all the werewolves in the community genuinely support Voldemort, of course. I reckon nearly half are sitting on the fence. But it is hard to persuade any to break from the alliance. Most of the community lives in fear of Greyback's iron-fist rule, and none are brave enough to openly dissent."

"Why not take a more proactive approach?" Buffy spoke up. The veteran Slayer figured she might as well say her piece if they were going to stare at her regardless.

"Pardon?" The DADA professor paused to regard the small blonde in surprise.

"What if we take out Greyback? You said that he's the only real obstacle, right? If he's out of the picture, the rest of the werewolves would be leaderless and divided. And Moldywart would have a way harder time trying to buy their support. He probably won't even bother then," she reasoned.

Her suggestion was met with a number of half-muffled snickers coming from Bill, Fred, George, and Tonks for the irreverent nickname for You-Know-Who. Kingsley smirked and even Moody snorted in amusement. Snape's face was contorted, it almost looked as though he wanted to laugh but could not bring himself under any circumstance to do it. Lupin, however, appeared ill at ease. "What do you mean by 'take out'?" he asked the young blonde.

"Yes," Dumbledore interrupted, "doing so would most certainly eliminate Voldemort's alliance with the werewolf community."

"But it's not exactly easy to get to Greyback," Kingsley pointed out. "The man's been on the Ministry's most wanted list for over three decades without once getting caught."

"Is Fenrir still residing in the settlement, Remus?" Albus inquired, appearing completely undaunted by the Ministry's continual lack of success.

"To my knowledge, yes." Remus bowed his head in the affirmative.

Dumbledore clapped his hands together as his eyes glittered behind the half-moon glasses. "Excellent, excellent! Meeting adjourned."

So what's the plan? Buffy glanced at Dumbledore curiously out of the corner of her eye.

We take out Fenrir as you said.

Dumbledore rose from his chair. The other Order members followed suit uncertainly, looking just as puzzled about the abrupt end to the meeting as Buffy felt. Mrs. Weasley crossed to the kitchen counter after a beat, calling to the red-haired members at the table expectantly, "Arthur, Bill, Fred, George help me prepare dinner." Mr. Weasley and Bill dutifully marched over to help while the twins groaned, more resembling petulant five year-olds than the twenty year-old young wizards that they were.

Splainy?

Later, I promise. I have some things to attend to. Do stay for dinner, please.

What? You can't just leave me alone with them! Buffy shot a pleading look at the wizened wizard.

Why ever not? They don't bite. Besides, I think it best for you to mingle a bit with your new compatriots. They're quite pleasant company, really.

"Well, I'd best be off." Albus switched back to speaking with his usual politesse.

Molly Weasley's face fell slightly at the Headmaster's announcement. She had wanted him to try her new roast lamb recipe tonight. As though Dumbledore had read her mind, the wizened wizard turned toward the plump, redheaded witch with an apologetic look.

"I'm terribly sorry for not staying, Molly. After all, your culinary skills are quite legendary if I do say so myself." He smiled charmingly before turning to regard the petite blonde. "Will you be alright in returning to Hogwarts alone?"

Buffy arched a golden brow in response. "You know me," she answered drolly as Albus dipped his head and made for the door.

Sighing softly, the Slayer turned to survey the family of redheaded now bustling around the kitchen area. Mrs. Weasley was overseeing a batch of potatoes that had been bewitched to self-peel and mash. Her husband and eldest son were busy adding milk and flour to a bowl of batter. And the twins- they were floating half a dozen eggs in the air right on top of Bill's head, bouncing them within a hair's breadth from making actual contact. Smothering a laugh, Buffy strode over to the plump redheaded witch's side. "Do you need any help with dinner, Mrs. Weasley? I'm not much of a cook, but I can wash and chop like the best of them," the Slayer offered in her best helpful voice.

Mrs. Weasley turned to face the petite blonde with a gracious smile. "Oh, that's so sweet of you, dear—"

The redheaded witch paused in the middle of her sentence as her gaze fell past the young blonde and onto the eggs bobbing merrily above Bill's head. Mrs. Weasley's eyes narrowed dangerously in their direction, her hands on her hips. "Fred and George Weasley! If you're not going to help, at least STOP FOOLING AROUND!"

Buffy winced at the surprising volume of the short witch's voice and unconsciously backed away.

_Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat._

By the time the twins had turned around to face their enraged mother, Bill was covered pitifully in raw egg whites and yokes. Muttering darkly under her breath, Molly whipped out her wand from the pocket of her newly-donned flowery apron and strode over to the quartet of redheaded wizards in various states of apprehension. Buffy almost felt sorry for Fred and George as they swallowed nervously at the sight of Mrs. Weasley's raised wand. With a sharp flick of the red-haired witch's wand, the splattered eggs were whole again and whisked off to the safety of a nearby counter.

"Now, boys," Mrs. Weasley began in a deadly whisper. "I expect to see a respectable-looking Yorkshire pudding ready and on the table in ten minutes. And Merlin help you if it's not the best Yorkshire pudding I've ever tasted."

"I've got enough help here as it is, I'm afraid," she said with a long-suffering expression as she addressed the petite blonde in between throwing dirty looks at her twin sons, who seemed to defy the very laws of physics by shrinking in stature under her reproachful glare. "Dinner will be ready in ten, dear," Mrs. Weasley smiled encouragingly.

"Okay," Buffy replied uncertainly as she plopped back down on an old wooden chair. She watched with wonder as a full family-sized meal was created in the same span of time it would have normally taken her to whip up JELLO instant pudding mix. Before she knew it, Molly had set a towering plate of food in front of her as Fred and George conveniently took the chairs on either side.

"Now, eat up, dear," the redheaded witch said in a warm, caring tone that only mothers could possess. "You're much too skinny."

"I think she looks just fine, Mum," Fred jumped to Buffy's defense.

"I'll take fine and raise it to gorgeous," George said with a wink.

Mrs. Weasley shot them a withering glare that shut them right up.

"I couldn't help but notice your accent. Are you from stateside, Elizabeth?" asked Mr. Weasley in between forkfuls of pudding and mash.

"Born and raised," Buffy answered. "And call me Eliza, Elizabeth makes me feel all old and stuffy."

"Hang on. Your name is Eliza Ashbery?" Molly cut in, suddenly peering at the petite blonde with intense interest.

"Last time I checked," Buffy answered with a confused frown. Her hazel eyes widened in surprise as Mrs. Weasley abruptly rose from her seat and ran the two steps over to envelope the small blonde in a fierce hug.

After a few seconds, the Slayer shifted slightly, hoping the witch would get the hint to release her from the unexpectedly tight embrace. When it became clear that Molly had no intentions of doing so, Buffy muttered in a muffled voice, "Okay. Air is suddenly becoming an issue."

Mrs. Weasley reluctantly pulled away, her hands never quite leaving Buffy's shoulders as she murmured with red-rimmed eyes. "Thank you for saving Ron's life, my dear girl!"

"Um, you're welcome?" the blonde Slayer replied, not really knowing what to make of Mrs. Weasley's show of gratitude as the redheaded witch ran a hand beneath her sniffling nose and retreated to her chair.

At his three sons' quizzical gazes, Arthur obligingly elaborated with a grateful smile at the now thoroughly uncomfortable Slayer. "Ginny wrote us that an American girl by the name of Eliza Ashbery saved Ron from a bugbear by jumping in front of him during his Care of Magical Creatures class."

"It wasn't that big of a deal, really," Buffy demurred as five beholden gazes were suddenly directed her way.

"Rubbish!" said George as he snaked an arm around her shoulder. "Any savior of ickle Ronniekins is a friend of ours!"

"Hear, hear!" Fred piped in, beaming at the petite blonde.

"That was a brave thing you did," Bill spoke up for the first time that night. "I don't know many full-grown wizards who would willingly do something like that," he intoned sincerely.

Buffy make a noncommittal vowel noise and turned away from their adoring looks to stare down at her plate. Give her master vampires, ascended snake demons, modern day frankensteins, hell gods, uber-vamps, and apocalypses any day. But praise and thanks for simply doing her job? _That_ was seriously scary. She exhaled a soft breath of relief as the conversation shifted to Bill's new married life and the twins' business affairs. As the meal progressed, the Slayer found herself gradually being drawn into the lively chatter and genuinely enjoying the company. Together, the Weasleys were the big, rowdy, happy family that she had secretly longed for when her parents' marriage was so disastrously falling apart. By the end of the evening, Buffy was sorry to leave.


	15. The Other Prophecy

**Author's Note:** Reviews (especially constructive criticism) are more than welcome and much appreciated! Your comments greatly help improve the quality of my writing as well as expedite updates. Many thanks to my new beta Shawn! 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
The Prophets

There are the modern prophets here,  
Though altars totally are felt,  
Their eyes are very deep and clear—  
In them, the flame of future set.

For them, the calls of fame are alien,  
They're pressed by mass and depth of words,  
All they are frightened, pale and sullen  
In tombs of stony abodes.

And sometimes in the fits of sadness,  
A prophet, just repelled by us,  
Rise up to skies his look of greatness—  
The look of clear and beaming eyes.

He says that he's in bonds of madness,  
But that his soul's a light for us,  
That he has seen in depths of sadness  
The shining face of Jesus Christ.

The dreams of Lord have many faces,  
Kind is a hand of him, who gives,  
Not just the one, like him, in grace is,   
And as a knight of kindness lives.

He says that World is not such fierce,  
That he's a prince of Future Dawn.  
But just the towers' black spirits   
Listen to him with mock and scorn.

Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

-

**15. The Other Prophecy**

-

Draco's cold, gray eyes followed her as her small figure glided down the corridor with the inborn grace of a dancer. The afternoon sun shining through the windows illuminated her already light hair a radiant shade of pale gold. The Prince of Slytherin sneered in disdain. She dressed like such a Muggle. Although, a hot Muggle, his mind conceded as the young wizard's gaze lingered on her black tank top, suede miniskirt, and knee-high boots. It wasn't enough that Eliza Ashbery was the Muggle-loving Headmaster's special guest, but she had also been seen on many an occasion socializing with the Gryffindor Golden Trio ever since the Care of Magical Creatures incident.

"Come on, Draco. We're going to be late for Divination," Pansy tugged on his arm.

"Ouch!"

He jerked his arm out roughly of her reach, rubbing the tender underside of his left forearm while shooting her an angry glare. Pansy looked instantly remorseful as she reached for his larger hand.

"I'm sorry Draco, I forgot for a second." Pansy took a small step closer to him as she gently took his hand in her own.

The Prince of Slytherin allowed his hand to be squeezed once before quickly pulling it away, immediately recognizing the gesture as just another feminine wile his girlfriend was so fond of using. As Pansy gazed up at him through her long, thick, dark eyelashes, Draco couldn't help but compare her chocolate hued orbs to Eliza's luminescent hazel ones. The former's were an open book, while the latter's were about as transparent as the midnight sky. Draco looked back down at his girlfriend of over a year. Pansy Parkinson was one of the few Slytherins he could honestly tolerate for any extended period of time. She was pretty, Pureblood, well-bred, and filthy rich. Perfection in his parents' eyes. And they had made that fact consummately clear to him ever since the tender age of seven.

He loved it when the manor was like this. All shiny, glowing, and filled with the sound of music and soft chatter. In times like these, the mansion didn't feel as cold or empty. The walls never seemed to close in on him. Though Draco was loath to admit it, he welcomed the company, even of unfamiliars to the usual enfolding loneliness. The young wizard knew that Father would frown upon such weakness. One did not need friends when it was much more effective to sway by charisma and to rule by manipulation. Father himself was constantly surrounded by a glittering circle of distinguished wizards and witches who fancied themselves his friends. Draco saw them for what they were. They were not friends. They were associates who Lucius Malfoy had wrapped around the length of his elegantly long, tapered finger.

Draco was pretty sure that Father could coax a straight answer out of a Sphinx had he a mind to do it.

There was the smallest quirk to Draco's thin mouth as he watched Father rubbing elbows with the Minister of Magic himself, the headmaster of Durmstrang Institute, and various members of the Wizengamut. On this evening, Father was dressed to impress in the most expensive wizarding dress robes that money and privilege could buy. But more telling than his attire was the way Father always carried himself. From the upward thrust of his pointed chin to the infatigably straight carriage of his spine, Lucius Malfoy was the stuff of aristocratic royalty... cold and aloof but charming to the last. "Men are sheep," Draco distinctly remembered Father saying, "Give the impression of being a gentleman and they'll let you get away with mass murder."

Draco started as a hand squeezed his shoulder. The young wizard glanced up to see that Father had broke off from the group and was now looking down from his significant height over him.

"I trust you recall our discussions on the importance of purity?"

"Of course, Father," Draco answered as a small wrinkle creased his brow in confusion.

"And?" Lucius prompted with a slightly appraising look.

Draco unconsciously straightened his back just the tiniest bit as he answered without missing a beat, his voice striving to emulate the assured confidence that was his father's trademark, "That as the heir of Malfoy, it is my duty to guard the sanctity of the family name. I musn't taint the line with the filth of Half-bloods or Mudbloods."

"Precisely. And why is that, Draco?"

"Because, we are superior," Draco answered with ingrained conviction. He had long been taught that Purebloods were better than everyone, and that as a Malfoy they were doubly so.

"Excellent." Lucius graced his son with a rare smile of approval. "Now, then. There is someone I wish you to meet, my boy. You see, Miss Parkinson is also born of an ancient, respected, Pureblood, wizarding family much like our own."

Draco's gray eyes followed his father's gaze to settle briefly on the small brunette girl who was currently conversing with his mother by the refreshment table.

"You are no longer a young boy, Draco. It is time to shoulder some of those responsibilities."

Pansy Parkinson was like every other upper-class debutante he had ever encountered: snobbish, bitchy, and insipid. Actually, her only redeeming qualities were that she was the prettiest Slytherin in his year, that and she adored him to the point of infatuation, practically worshipped the ground he walked on. The Prince of Slytherin liked that in a girl. It was nice. Besides, Pansy provided some much needed intellectual stimulation whenever Blaise wasn't around, considering Crabbe and Goyle had only half a brain between the two of them. Draco glanced at the lumbering idiots faithfully flanking his sides and rolled his eyes.

Draco returned his attention back to the petite blonde as she disappeared around a corner. His father would have an apoplexy if he ever found out about Draco's growing little obsession with the American. The flaxen-haired wizard stopped mid-stride, whirling to face Pansy. "Hang on, I forgot something back in the dorm."

Pansy halted her step as well, frowning slightly, "Well, you'd better hurry. Honestly, Draco, if you were any more forgetful you'd be as bad as that Longbottom idiot."

Draco barely heard her remark as Crabbe and Goyle followed after his girlfriend like the mindless automatons they were. He rounded the same corner, hoping catch Eliza before she disappeared for another indeterminate number of days. Draco spotted the tiny blonde standing still in the center of a corridor junction, apparently lost in thought. He smirked to himself and slid into place close beside her.

"You know, Ashbery," Draco whispered conspirationally into her ear, "staring off into space in the middle of a busy hallway intersection isn't exactly a big indication of sanity."

Buffy whipped her head round to cast a glance the platinum-haired Slytherin before returning to gaze at nothing in particular. She had sensed his approach long before he spoke. "Sanity's overrated," she retorted without inflection.

There was a glint in Draco's gray eyes as they traced over her slight curves. If Buffy noticed, she either ignored it or didn't seem to care enough to call him on it.

"So, care to enlighten me on what you were doing?" Draco asked when it became clear that she wasn't likely to contribute further to the conversation.

Buffy lifted one shoulder in indifferent response. "I was debating on whether to torture myself with Double History of Magic today."

"Well, I've got Divination. Fancy a change from boring, dead blighter to a barmy, old bat?" Draco offered, attempting to keep the pathetic hopefulness out of his voice.

She repeated the apathetic half-shrug, and then turned to face him, her head cocked to the side. "And since when were we on speaking terms again?" Buffy asked. She was well aware of precisely how snippy she was acting. Something about Draco Malfoy just brought out her snarky side in the same way her 'inner bitch' always reared its truculent head whenever in the company of pre-soul Spike.

"I figured I'd given you enough time to see the error of your ways," Draco replied, crossing his arms over his chest pretentiously.

Buffy snorted. "Right. And the sky is green."

Draco scowled. Buffy simply arched a fine, golden brow in expectation. By Salazar, the girl was such a bleeding ice queen! How he adored her even as he glared. Merlin, could he pick them. Draco stared deeply into shadowed eyes that held his gaze unerringly. Seconds stretched into minutes of pregnant silence. Draco became fixated on her pink, glossy lips as an amused smirk played at its corners. He was overcome with an animalistic urge to grab Eliza by the hips and crush her pretty, little mouth to his.

"Fine! I'm sorry that you got hurt, happy now?" the Prince of Slytherin finally snapped, hissing in defeated exasperation.

Draco was stunned by his sudden outburst. It had been years since he last apologized to anybody. Malfoys were never wrong. It was a shame that Eliza could not grasp the gravity of the gesture.

"Not even close—"

Buffy smiled a sad smile that greatly perplexed Draco. It made her appear more world-weary than the school Headmaster for a fleeting moment. But then, she blinked, erasing all traces of melancholy and infinite age from her youthful features.

"—but let's go. I'm strangely psyched to meet a real, live seer."

Draco smirked, her enigmatic smile momentarily forgotten. "You're in for disappointment then. Professor Trelawney can't even see past her own glasses, let alone the future," he remarked.

They fell into step together for the long trek to the secluded North Tower while slipping into biting banter. It was the only tower the blonde hadn't gotten to visit during her extensive tour with Dumbledore, who had cited the excuse that the tower's atmosphere wreaked havoc on his nasal passages. Buffy shot the Slytherin Head Boy an incredulous look when they reached a circular trapdoor in the ceiling of a landing. Draco was half tempted to make Eliza climb the silvery ladder first, seeing as it would have provided him with a tantalizing view, but decided to act the gentleman instead.

They emerged in the attic-like classroom, their tardy arrival drawing everyone's attention but the professor's. Pansy glared furiously at Draco as she saw that he did not come alone. Draco ignored her as he pulled out an armchair for Buffy at Blaise's round table before taking a seat there himself. The bug-eyed Sibyll Trelawney sat perched on her enormous winged chair in front of the fireplace, lecturing the class in her soft, misty voice. "Pair up and read each other's tarot cards. You may use your textbooks for reference if the need arises."

"Hullo," Blaise gazed at Eliza in undisguised appreciation.

A hot stab of jealousy flared up in the pit of Draco's stomach when she briefly smiled at his fellow Slytherin in return.

Buffy felt herself growing drowsy in the tower room's heavily perfumed atmosphere as Blaise and Draco messed around with a stack of tarot cards. Professor Trelawney swept from table to table, each movement preceded by the jangling of her numerous bead necklaces and colorful bangles. The blonde Slayer had almost drifted off completely when a soft voice startled her out of her stupor. Professor Trelawney stood directly in front of Buffy, large, magnified, bespectacled eyes staring down intently.

"You, girl, I don't recognize you from before."

Buffy blinked. She had definitely seen the kooky woman at the faculty meeting. She sat up in her chair, feeling disoriented from olfactory sensory overload as the overpowering scent of the professor's perfume wafted up to her hypersensitive nose.

Sibyll leaned closer to inspect Buffy. Everyone in the room went very quiet with curiosity.

"Your aura is unnaturally dark, my child," she began in a faraway voice. She closed her eyes tightly, as though in deep concentration. Professor Trelawney refocused on Buffy with a sharp gasp. "Violence, peril, death, I sense surrounding you—"

The Divination Professor moved to lay a comforting hand on Buffy's arm. As soon as her ringed fingers grazed the blonde Slayer's skin, Sibyll's body went rigid. Buffy's eyes widened in surprise as the professor's eyes started to roll up into the back of her head. The class sat frozen in their seats, transfixed, as a voice deep, harsh, and very unlike Trelawney's boomed forth from the professor's mouth:

"BEWARE THE WINTER SOLSTICE. AT MIDNIGHT, A POWERFUL WEAPON OF TERRIBLE DESTRUCTION SHALL COME TO THE DARK LORD. IT SHALL BRING TO HIM GREATER MIGHT THAN EVER HE HAD. TRUE ALLEGIANCE SHALL BE TESTED AND THE FATE OF THE SECOND WIZARDING WAR DETERMINED. BEWARE... THE WINTER SOLSTICE... MIDNIGHT..."

Buffy caught Professor Trelawney as the witch lurched forward suddenly, coughing raggedly. Then, quite abruptly, Sibyll straightened herself from Buffy's restraining arms. She rubbed her throat with shaky hands in between forceful swallows, looking confused and flustered.

"Sorry, dear," she rasped mistily while padding down her bouffant, crimped hair. "Must have caught a summer cold..."

Sibyll seemed just at that moment to notice the gaping expressions hanging on her students' faces. "Something wrong, class?" she inquired obliviously.

"No! Nothing," Buffy quickly answered for them. "But you don't look too well, Professor," she continued in a cajoling tone with a convincing frown of concern. "Maybe you should take the rest of the day off."

"Yes, yes, my Inner Eye agrees that that shall be the best recourse," Trelawney turned toward the panicked group of Seventh-Year Gryffindors and Slytherins, absently smoothing the gauzy shawl that perpetually sheathed her torso. "Class is dismissed early today. Don't forget to do your readings."

She turned back to Buffy as the class recovered enough from shock to begin packing up their schoolbags. "What was your name again?"

The chair was already empty.

Draco stared after the flash of flaxen hair as it vanished down the circular trapdoor.

What the bloody hell just happened here?

-

"Guys, you'll never believe what happened in Divination class today!" Seamus yelled, panting as he burst into the Gryffindor common room with Dean and Neville in tow, who also appeared to be short of breath. The common room was deserted for the afternoon break except for Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

"What's all the racket?" Ron mumbled, rubbing his eyes groggily as he lifted his head from the wooden table where it had been resting. The redheaded Gryffindor had slipped into much-needed slumber while Hermione was 'editing' his and Harry's Transfiguration essays on trans-species transformation.

"What is it, Seamus?" Hermione inquired, putting down her quill as the three winded Gryffindor Seventh-Years joined them at their table.

"I think Professor Trelawney made an actual prophecy today," said Dean, looking to Seamus and Neville for confirmation.

"Yeah." Neville nodded. "She sort of went rigid and her voice got all deep-like."

"We all thought she was having a fit of seizure or something at first," Seamus frowned.

Harry's breath hitched up his throat, where an uncomfortable lump was beginning to form. Their description of Trelawney's behavior was exactly the same as he remembered her from his Third-Year Divination final exam. "What did she say?" he prompted quickly with mounting dread.

"It all happened so fast. One minute, she was telling Elizabeth Ashbery that her aura was dark with violence and death, and the next she was prophesying about the Dark Lord getting a powerful weapon during the winter solstice that'll test allegiances and decide the war," Dean recalled uncertainly.

Harry felt an icy numbness seep into his limbs as the news sunk in. He leveled a grim, significant look at Hermione and Ron. Ron appeared as worried as he was, but Hermione didn't seem to reciprocate his concern. The black-haired Seventh-year remembered belatedly that he had never gotten the chance to tell his two best friends about that incident with Trelawney some three years prior. Something bad was going to happen during Christmas. They had to figure it out. They had to stop it. Harry repeated it over and over to himself like a mantra.

"It was really weird," Neville surmised after a moment, shaking his head in consternation.

"Yeah, and the really funny thing was that Elizabeth girl stayed so calm and collected the entire time," Seamus mused. "She wasn't even acting scared or shocked like the rest of us when Trelawney went mental right in front of her—or before, when Trelawney was predicting her death and doom, come to think of it."

"You guys have to go tell Dumbledore about this," Harry spoke up, his expression serious and voice grave.

"Yeh, you're right," Dean agreed. "See you later," he inclined his head toward them before heading for the portrait hole, followed by Seamus and Neville.

"How come nothing exciting like that ever happened when we were taking the class? Almost makes me wish we had Divination again," complained Ron after a beat.

"Right, Ron. It's not like you passed your Divination O.W.L. or anything. Besides, I reckon it was just some sort of desperate cry for attention on Trelawney's part," Hermione rolled her eyes dismissively and picked up where she had left off on Ron's pitiful attempt at an essay.

Harry remained silent for several minutes, his mind carefully mulling over his fellow Gryffindors' recount of the afternoon's events. When he finally spoke, his voice was leaden and strained.

"I don't think that's exactly it..."


	16. Flowers and Chocolate

**Author's Note:** Hi readers, here are the results to the 2 polls I posted at FFNet and Twisting the Hellmouth. If you don't like the current standings, plead your case now! Please note that I claim artistic license. In other words, I'll try to honor your requests but if in the process of writing something different and better develops, please don't flame me. 

_Who should be Buffy's new love interest(s)?_

Harry Potter 7  
Draco Malfoy 7  
Sirius Black 4 (He's dead, people... and staying that way. Sorry to disappoint.)  
Severus Snape 2  
Oliver Wood 1  
Fred/George Weasley 1  
Charlie Weasley 1  
Hermione Granger 1

_Should Draco Malfoy be redeemed in this story?_

Yes 4  
No 0  
Unsure 3

Thanks a bunch to my lovely betas!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
Drunk as Drunk

Drunk as drunk on turpentine From your open kisses,  
Your wet body wedged  
Between my wet body and the strake  
Of our boat that is made of flowers,  
Feasted, we guide it—our fingers  
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal—  
Over the sky's hot rim,  
The day's last breath in our sails.

Pinned by the sun between solstice  
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together And lay like fish  
Under the net of our kisses.

Pablo Neruda

(Abridged for the purposes of this story)  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
-

**16. Flowers and Chocolate**

-

The light of the breaking day crept slowly through the large bay windows as the sun ascended inch by inch in the dawning sky. The tiny blonde shifted slightly as the insistently bright sunlight touched over her eyelids, compelling her to awaken. Buffy threw an arm over her eyes in an attempt to ignore the intrusion of daylight and heavy throbbing on her temples. It was a wasted effort. Her heightened Slayer senses alerted Buffy to the sensation that she was being watched. She opened her eyes to see that she was. Crud. The fact that the guy was awake definitely put a glitch in her usual tried-and-true plan of an unseen morning getaway. Stupid alcohol that made me oversleep... Stupid man who bought me the stupid alcohol... Buffy grumbled inwardly.

A gorgeous man with dark curly hair lay on his side facing her, head propped up on one hand. A mischievous expression graced his handsome, aristocratic features as he spoke to her in a lilting, rich voice, slightly rough from sleep and Buffy was instantly reminded of why she had decided to go home with him.

"¡Finalmente¡La belleza rubia se despierta!"

She admired the way his sculpted muscles rippled as he smoothed the tumble of errant strands obscuring her vision back from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear, his hand tangling in her mussed hair briefly. "¿Quieres desayunar?" he asked softly.

Buffy felt slightly hazy from the lingering effects of too much sangria as she sat up, not caring as the movement caused the silk sheets to slip down around her hips, and stretched her arms above her head lazily. She had left modesty behind ages ago. It probably also had something to do with the general feeling of apathy she currently held towards the world at large.

"Si. Y estoy en necesidad desperada del agua," she murmured, rubbing her pounding head. "¿Podemos hablar en inglés? Me duele la cabeza mas demasiado para traducir todo."

"Of course, mi belleza."

Felipe's dark eyes drank in the sight of her bare torso greedily, his long fingers reaching to lace around the soft underside of her breast. Buffy shuddered under his feather light touches. A wave of welcoming heat pooled in her belly as he leaned over to slide his mouth over hers, his teeth rasping over her bottom lip before pulling back slightly, their lower bodies pressed tightly together. Buffy could feel his erection building, pressing against the side of her inner thigh.

"Would you mind terriblemente if breakfast had to wait?" he said, voice husky with desire, not really asking as his eyes darkened with desire.

Buffy looked up into his burning stare. "I highly doubt it," she whispered, her breath coming in heavy gasps as his hand reached in between them.

-

"Find anything yet?" Ron asked for the umpteenth time.

Hermione rolled her eyes heavenward helplessly. "Sorry Ron," she muttered quickly before producing her wand from her robes.

"Hey, what are y—" Ron bristled at the sight of his best friend's wand pointed toward him.

"_Silencio._"

Harry snickered at the look of gaping indignation on Ron's face, which turned to a shade matching his hair in a matter of seconds. Harry had no prior experience in reading lips, but he was sure he could make out the words "bloody hell" somewhere in Ron's quiet diatribe that was orated with wild jabbing gestures at their female cohort. The black-haired Gryffindor shared a look of amusement with Hermione before turning back to his own large, musty tome that had provided him with no information of pertinence to date. He sighed and pushed himself off from the hard, wooden library chair and hefted the heavy book back to its shelf. Walking back, he peered over Hermione's shoulder to see how she had fared.

"Any luck?" he inquired with a frown.

"I'm afraid not," Hermione responded. The bushy-haired Head Girl sat back and rubbed her eyes, feeling knackered from squinting at page upon page of faded, arcane texts. She glanced at Harry with a none-too-optimistic expression. "There's probably a good reason why prophecies are magical mysteries, Harry. I doubt they'd be placed under the Department of Mysteries if any ordinary witch or wizard could suss them out." She sighed, eyes darting to Ron, who had given up his tirade in favor of glaring at her with his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest. "And this is getting to be a bit of a wild goose chase. For all we know, this 'weapon' could be a toss-up of among a billion different things. Maybe you should ask Dumbledore about it during your next lesson."

Harry nodded. "You're right. Dumbledore always seems to know everything."

"And I can't seem to find even a slip on Elizabeth Ashbery," Hermione added absently.

Harry whirled around so fast that Hermione almost dropped her quill.

"You're still trying to gen up on Eliza?"

"Well of course, Harry. You heard what Trelawney prophesied about her. Even _you_ have to admit the girl's a bit of a dodgy character."

A frown appeared on Harry's face. "I'd rather you didn't, Hermione."

"What? Why not?" Hermione's voice rose slightly higher in pitch, sounding incredulous.

"Because- because, we'd be invading her privacy for starters," Harry tried to explain his reasons rather unsuccessfully.

"Like that's ever stopped us before," she snorted.

Ron began gesturing expressively again at the turn in the conversation. Harry hastily muttered, "_Finite Incantatem_," lifting the silencing spell in hopes of gaining an ally in the tiff to come.

"I know what you're thinking 'Mione, but she can't be evil if she saved my life," cited Ron once he had reacquired the ability to speak.

Hermione glared at them in exasperation. "Well, _I_ think you two are being awfully mug. Didn't the impostor Moody help Harry with his Tri-Wizard Tournament tasks? And look how he turned out," she shot back, daring them to say otherwise.

"But she's _Dumbledore's_ guest for crying out loud—" Harry began.

"So was the fake Mad-eye Moody," Hermione countered. "Just because you two think Eliza's fit and a bit of a dish doesn't absolve her from possibly being a dark witch in disguise," stated Hermione in a tone that precluded all argument.

Harry considered his options, finally deciding to let it be, ruefully reminding himself that Hermione wouldn't be Hermione without wanting to research every little thing. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that Hermione was right about him and Ron. Harry did like Eliza, quite a lot in fact. So much that he almost didn't want to learn the truth. His mind had long ago placed Eliza Ashbery on a pedestal. Harry wasn't sure if he'd like that illusion shattered lest Hermione be correct in her suspicion.

"Fine," Harry replied flatly, not meeting Hermione's gaze and shoved his scattered school supplies into his bag with unnecessary force. "Do what you want, Hermione."

"Where are you going, Harry?" Ron asked, checking his watch. "There's still a good hour before DADA."

"I'm going to practice Occlumency," Harry informed them gruffly as he stalked off.

"Don't look now, but I think you've got him brassed off, 'Mione," Ron shook his head sadly. He froze abruptly, pivoting round to scowl at her, "Hey, I should be mad at you too for hexing me!"

Hermione propped her book further up, conveniently blocking Ron's incensed visage from view. "Not that anyone cares what I think, but I'll wager Harry was a lot better off being smitten with Ginny."

Ron didn't know what to say to that. Sure, his best friend was a great guy and Ginny had had a crush on Harry ever since forever, but Ron wasn't sure how he felt about the two of them together. The truth was, he had found himself secretly relieved to learn that Harry had broken it off with Ginny before the end of last term. Ron loved both of them to death, but he couldn't bear the thought of their relationship endangering his one and only baby sister. Was that so wrong?

-

It was a while later that Buffy apparated into her Hogwarts suite.

A high pitched squeak accompanied her arrival. Buffy started slightly at the sight of the unfamiliar intruder in her suite, but faring much better than said intruder who plummeted from its perch the fireplace mantle to the hard, stone floor with a loud thump. The Slayer reflexively sprang into a defensive stance, battle ready, as she watched the small, short creature with large bat-like ears pick itself up off the ground, gingerly rubbing its hindquarters whilst staring back at her with huge, green, tennis ball-sized eyes. _Elf?_ was first thing that popped into her mind during her appraisal of its appearance. The small elf-like creature began trembling slightly under the intensity of her scrutiny.

"Who and what are you? And what are you doing in my room?" Buffy demanded, cold eyes narrowed menacingly.

"Do—Dobby is a house-elf, mistress. Dobby was just cleaning li—like Master Dumbledore s—says," he stuttered and nervously edged farther away. The waves of primal power and hostility radiating off the diminutive blonde was causing much distress to the house-elf.

"A house-elf?" Buffy repeated dubiously to the cringing creature, before doing a quick inspection of the state of the room. The place did seem tidier than when she had left it. Something registered from her readings and Dumbledore's tour of the castle as Buffy eyed the house-elf's ensemble of a knitted tea-cozy for a hat, a polka-dotted vest, and colorful knitted socks on its feet with a high degree of amusement. "You guys are like the Hogwarts room-service, right?"

"Y-Yes, mistress Ashbery. We hou—house-elves work for the school. Headmaster is very kind, the best employer Dobby's ever h—had," Dobby answered, his hands twisting the material of his lurid vest with apparent worry for his safety.

Buffy let a small grin spread across her face. "You can relax, Dobby. I'm not going to hurt you," she gently assured the visibly intimidated house-elf and reined in her Slayer urges.

Dobby sighed with relief, his tense stance softening slightly. Buffy walked over to the largest couch and plopped down, patting the seat next to her and looking at the house-elf invitingly.

The house-elf's face rapidly transformed from an expression of trepidation to one of simpering gratitude. "Mistress Eliza Ashbery has asked Dobby to sit! No witch has ever asked if Dobby wants to sit!" Dobby nearly burst into tears as he climbed onto the couch.

Buffy's eyebrows shot up at his hysterics. "Uh—you're welcome?" she said, patting the small house-elf awkwardly on the shoulder.

Dobby's large eyes darted to Buffy as if suddenly recalling something. "Can Dobby ask the kind mistress a question?" he inquired timidly.

"Shoot."

Dobby looked at her with a bemused expression. "Mistress wishes Dobby to shoot?"

"No, it means—" Buffy rolled her eyes helplessly. "Oh, never mind. Go ahead and ask me."

Dobby nodded uncertainly, his large ears flopping. "How did mistress apparate into Hogwarts? Dobby thought it impossible for witches and wizards."

Buffy scrunched up her nose. Damn, caught at last. "It's a really long story. Can you just keep that little fact to yourself and let us never speak of it again?" she implored.

The small house-elf's face lit up in a bright smile, "Yes! Yes! Dobby will keep the secret, mistress! Master Dumbledore told Dobby Ms. Elizabeth Asbery is special. Now Dobby knows why! Dobby will be a good elf and not tell!" he exclaimed happily, terribly excited to be of service to someone of such importance to the Headmaster.

Buffy winced at the squeakiness of Dobby's reply before asking, "Are you the only house-elf who cleans my room?" It had suddenly occurred to her that the suite might not as private as she'd thought.

"Yes, Dobby is the only one. Master Dumbledore says mistress likes her privacy."

"There's that at least," she muttered.

"Does mistress wish for Dobby to place the lilies of the valley in a vase?" Dobby asked, his innate need to be helpful overcoming the tinge of fear he still felt toward the Headmaster's strange and scary guest.

"Oh, these," Buffy looked down at the large bouquet clutched in her left hand that had been forgotten in the previous excitement. "Sure."

She watched in fascination as Dobby made a beautiful crystal vase appear out of thin air with a snap of his fingers and then scurried about arranging the large bouquet. So much of her life as the Slayer had involved dark magic and malicious spells that it was uplifting to be reminded that a simple and innocent side to magic coexisted as well.

"Who gifted mistress the beauteous flowers?" Dobby asked absently as he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

Buffy's bare feet made no noise as she padded into Felipe's marble covered modern kitchen, her hair dripping from the shower. He turned toward her as Buffy peeked over his shoulder to peer at the contents of the pan.

"Smells good. Need help with anything?" Buffy asked. She certainly hadn't meant to linger this long. But the guy was being so nice that she felt too guilty to follow her original plan of high-tailing it out of there as soon as possible.

"No," Felipe flashed her a devastating smile.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. _

"Actually, can you answer the door?" he amended.

"Sure can," Buffy called, already halfway to the door.

She opened the door to find a large bouquet of white lilies thrust into her face.

"Gracias," she called after the delivery boy.

"Someone got you flowers, Felipe. Should I be jealous?" Buffy teased as she rejoined him in the kitchen, where he was cutting up various pieces of fresh fruit.

Felipe let out a bark of warm laughter. "No, mi belleza. Those are for you," he reached out and stroked her cheek with a thumb.

"Oh!" Buffy's face was awash with surprise, which she quickly schooled away. "You shouldn't have," she added quietly, bringing the bouquet under her nose to whiff the light fragrance.

Felipe shot her a look, "Why not? Can't a man buy his girl flowers?"

"No..." Buffy trailed off with an unreadable expression as she continued to watch him finish cutting the omelet into square tapas before placing them onto a plate and carrying it in one hand and the plate of fresh fruit and cream in the other.

The meal was spent in contented silence in the sunlit kitchen during which Buffy was painfully aware of Felipe's observation of her.

"I'm not going to see you again, am I?" he surmised with a hint of sadness.

Buffy was caught off guard by the unexpected question, the cream-dipped strawberry paused midway to her mouth. "What? What are you talking about?"

"This is a one night stand for you, si?"

Buffy ducked her head, at a loss for words. She contemplated lying to him, but realized he was too perceptive for such petty deception. "It is." She rose from her chair and walked over to him, eyes pleading. "God, I feel like such a jerk now. You're a great guy, Felipe. I just... I'm not ready for anything serious yet. I don't know if I ever will be again..."

Felipe stood up, cradling her face in his hands. "Your heart is still taken, no?"

Buffy nodded. "You really are a great guy. And you've been wonderful all morning."

A playful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, "Only the morning?"

She rolled her eyes, relieved by the turn to lighter things.

"You're a lovely girl. I envy the man who has your heart."

Buffy lifted her gaze upward, where the shadows of leaves blowing in the wind danced across the ceiling. "Me too," she sighed, "me too."

"Mistress?" Dobby's high-pitched voice broke through her reverie.

Buffy blinked. "A very nice gentleman—more than I deserve," she remarked with a wistful smile.

-

A soft _pop_ sounded as the tall, black-haired wizard unhurriedly poured himself a double shot from the crystal bottle of amber liquid that seemed to encase a blazing flame at its center. "Hello, old friend," he spoke in a deep, silky voice as he turned to regard the newcomer. "Would you care for some fire whiskey?"

"Yes, please," replied the tall, hooded figure who had just materialized.

The Potions Master was quick to note the economy of movement to which the platinum blonde wizard pulled off his hood and settled into the sofa by the lit fireplace. His sharp black eyes ran over his friend's appearance critically for a second before handing Lucius a shot glass and taking a seat in the armchair opposite him. "I'm glad to see that Azkaban has treated you better than some."

"Yes, I suppose." Lucius paused, slinging an arm in a carefully calculated casual manner over the back of the couch in the perfect pose of relaxation. The warm backlighting of the fire lent an unearthly, regal sheen to the wizard's pale hair and features. "To the Dark Lord," said the flaxen-haired wizard with a slightly mocking upturn of his lips, raising his glass and draining it in a single swallow.

Snape followed suit, then set his glass down. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure, Lucius?" he inquired with a lazy drawl.

Malfoy shifted into a more comfortable position in his seat, as comfortable as he could get with the lingering traces of Lord Voldemort's displeasure for his debacle at the Department of Mysteries ravaging his body. To his credit, Lucius hid the discomfiture well, allowing no signs of fatigue to show through. Cold, gray eyes quickly scanned the small, private room before he spoke. "I trust you've taken the necessary precautions?"

"But of course." Severus bowed his head.

"Excellent. I have something I wish you to deliver to Draco," Lucius smiled, producing a single package of chocolate frogs from his cloak and tossed it to the Potions professor.

Snape's eyebrows rose slightly as he caught the small parcel. It only took a moment for realization to dawn as he turned it over in his hands. "I take it Draco has informed you of Filch's new Secrecy Sensors."

Lucius's pleased smile grew. "But of course."

-

**Translations:**

_"¡Finalmente¡La belleza rubia se despierta!"_———"Finally! The blonde beauty awakens!"

_"¿Quieres desayunar?"_———"Do you want to eat breakfast?"

_"Si. Y estoy en necesidad desperada del agua...¿Podemos hablar en inglés? Me duele la cabeza mas demasiado para traducir todo."_———"Yes. And I'm in desperate need of water...Can we speak in English? My head hurts too much to translate everything."


	17. Behind Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:** Judging from many of the comments I've received thus far, I think it's time to clarify that not everything will be hugs and puppies in this story. Things _will_ get worse before they get better. And as for the pairing(s): this is not a romance fic, so the sappiness will be kept to a minimum. Relationships will only appear in this story if they are meaningful (none of that ridiculous Ron-Lavender Brown snogging rubbish). Yes, it will get dark and depressing at times, but just bear with me. I can't promise that everyone will get to live happily ever after or even that they'll all get to live. But ultimately, I do strive to bring you a rewarding reading experience. 

I suppose I should give an explanation for why I won't be resurrecting Sirius Black. My main reason is because I don't want to make it seem like Buffy can save everyone in the HPverse. She's not perfect or omnipotent. Living with the guilt of not being able to save everyone that needed saving has been a strong theme in the later BtVS seasons, and I want to remain faithful to that. Also, resurrecting him would make light of everything Harry has been through. The death of Sirius is akin to the untimely demise of Buffy's mom. J.K. Rowling intended it as a plot device for Harry to realize that he has to learn to stand on his own and leave behind the familiarity of his emotional dependence. So, I won't be tampering with that.

If you have any questions on why I made changes to the HBP developments, drop me a comment and I'll be happy to explain next time. A special thanks to my wonderful beta, **Vkky**! I don't know what I'd do without you! And readers: please continue to review. Your feedback is what keeps me on my toes and motivated to see this project through. Sorry about this uber-long author's note, I'll kindly shut up now. And now, on with the show!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
As imperceptibly as Grief

As imperceptibly as Grief   
The Summer lapsed away—  
Too imperceptible at last   
To seem like Perfidy—  
A Quietness distilled   
As Twilight long begun,   
Or Nature spending with herself   
Sequestered Afternoon—  
The Dusk drew earlier in—  
The Morning foreign shone—  
A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,   
As Guest, that would be gone—  
And thus, without a Wing   
Or service of a Keel   
Our Summer made her light escape   
Into the Beautiful.

Emily Dickinson  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

-

**17. Behind Blue Eyes  
**

-

Autumn arrived before any were wise to its encroachment. Red and gold leaves replaced the summer's green and seemed to fall in showers of confetti from the heavens, carried to and fro by the October wind. The warm memory of the sunny days of summer was all but forgotten as the chill air punished with its frosty fingers all those who dared to brave Mother Nature. True to form, the dreary skies unleashed sheet upon sheet of torrential showers on the idyllic Scottish countryside, blanketing Hogwarts in perpetual rain cloud. 

Buffy took another deep draught from her steaming mug of hot chocolaty goodness, thinking fondly of the exuberant house-elf who had taken it upon himself to lavish her with a seemingly endless supply of incomparably yummy foods and drinks. Dobby had definitely turned out to be a pleasant surprise. Not that she was complaining, mind you. No, the outspoken house-elf seemed to have a remarkable knack for popping in exactly when she needed something. Leaning forward, Buffy pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window pane, idly watching the raindrops descend past her field of vision and listening to the gentle pitter patter as they collided with the castle walls and ground below.

She turned her attention back to the stack of Ministry of Magic reports compiled over the years on Fenrir Greyback. Buffy flipped the page with a soft sigh, unable to get over how odd it felt to be researching a big bad without the Scoobies at her side. Or jelly donuts, her mind added. With a nostalgic smile, she delved back to the werewolf's exploits warmly ensconced in the plush cushions of her window seat. A quiet knock interrupted Buffy in the middle of a sentence. She put down the file she had been skimming and crossed over to the portrait hole, swinging Madam Puddlemere open to reveal the tall Headmaster and even taller Professor Lupin waiting outside of her door.

"Hey guys! Well, don't just stand there, mi casa es tu casa," she grinned, moving aside to allow the two wizards to climb through.

Remus followed after Dumbledore, still pondering why exactly the Headmaster had summoned him here this morning to meet with Eliza Ashbery, though he had a sneaky suspicion that it had to do with Order business. His eyes darted around the spacious sitting room with more than a little curiosity. In all the seven years of his stay as a student at Hogwarts, Remus had never seen this particular space put to use. He had done his fair share of exploring with the Marauders back in those days, but they never did figure out how to get into this room, as Madam Penelope Puddlemere wasn't one to be won over by any amount of sweet talk or bribery. Sparing the room another glance, he took a seat in the armchair next to the couch where Eliza and the Headmaster had elected to settle. Remus let his gaze trail speculatively over the small frame of the girl once he had decided from his brief inspection that the suite itself appeared to house nothing out of the ordinary.

She was dressed in low-rise blue jeans and a brown corduroy jacket over a deep teal halter. If Dumbledore hadn't announced at the last Order meeting that Eliza Ashbery was a wandless witch, Remus would have pegged her for a Muggle. No witch is that fashionable or comfortable in Muggle dress, he thought. Plus, he had yet to see the girl in a set of robes to date. Perhaps she's a Half-blood or Muggleborn like Hermione? Remus mused. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something different about her. Some part of his brain was trying to rationalize it as her being a wandless witch since he had never met another one before... but it wasn't quite working. Remus breathed in deeply, pushing aside the light fragrance of her perfume until he detected the unmistakable scent of earth and dried blood, almost too faint even for his enhanced werewolf senses. Adding this new puzzle to the pile that had been festering ever since he first met the mystery girl, Remus tilted his head in a bird-like manner, observing with growing curiosity as Dumbledore and Eliza fell into easy conversation together.

"How was your week, dear?" Albus inquired in a gentler tone than Remus had ever heard before.

"Same old, same old," she answered blithely, pulling a leg underneath her body in the way that only females seemed to be able to do.

"Have you eaten breakfast yet?"

Buffy shot him a pointed look complete with a slender arched brow. "It's 9:15 in the morning, Dumbledore. You're lucky that I liked you enough to drag my ass out of bed this early."

"Ah, that's right. It must be old age setting in," Dumbledore kidded, grinning.

Remus had to smile at the playful conversation which abruptly took a turn to the bizarre.

"Nah. You're like a baby in the circles I travel," she waved a dainty, manicured hand dismissively.

Albus chuckled, his moustache and long beard twitching. "Yes, if I recall correctly, a great number of your significant others were well advanced in years."

"Is that just a polite, British way of saying I like my men old and crusty?" she retorted, placing her hands on her hips in mock indignation before bursting into a fit of self-deprecating laughter.

"I should certainly hope not. And I'll have you know that old age does not always coincide with—" he frowned at her implication, "—crustiness."

Remus listened in unashamedly. He had half a mind to ask if they were being serious. The thought of Eliza dating men the Headmaster considered old was unsettling to say the least. The DADA professor couldn't help but stare at his employer in wonder as Albus joined Eliza in lighthearted laughter over some new exchange he had missed. Remus had never seen the Headmaster behaving so informally with anyone before, let alone a girl of Harry's age. The intimate camaraderie between the two caused his heart to twist painfully. Remus still missed Padfoot terribly. It was a cruel twist of fate to have one of his best friends finally return, only to be torn away two short years later.

"Remus?"

"What?" the werewolf quickly shook his head to banish the unbidden memories of the reckless, mischievous young man who never had a chance to grow up as he heard himself being addressed by the Headmaster.

"I asked if you would care for a spot of tea and biscuits, Remus," Albus repeated with a gentle smile, gesturing to the tea set that had evidently appeared on the coffee table while he was lost to his thoughts.

"Yes, thank you, Headmaster," Remus replied a little hoarsely as he accepted the cup and saucer from Dumbledore.

Buffy popped another lemon drop into her mouth from the Headmaster's ever-present little, brown, paper bag as Professor Lupin and Dumbledore snacked on _tea and biscuits. _By god, if the gloomy weather wasn't enough to remind me that I'm in the land of Giles. The blonde Slayer rolled her eyes. It's a good thing Dumbledore's glasses never leave his face to get polished. Maybe they're magically self-cleaning glasses? Shaking away her increasingly scattered thoughts, Buffy turned her full attention to the DADA professor and began analyzing him in a detached manner for the lack of a more stimulating activity as the wizards continued to drink and dine.

Remus Lupin was incredibly tall and of average build. Although still quite young, he looked constantly tired and sickly, and his light brown hair was prematurely peppered with gray. Buffy studied his quiet demeanor with sharp eyes and couldn't help but be reminded of Oz. Cool and collected, she noted, so much so that he seemed to calm the very air around him. Just then, Remus' gaze flicked upward and their eyes met. Buffy saw him glance as her questioningly, as if to ask why she was staring.

Remus knew his face must have looked pale and drawn and his wizard robes as patched and shabby as ever. Yet, somehow he knew that wasn't what Eliza was seeing. The tiny blonde witch's stare packed the same penetrating intensity the current Headmaster's was famous for. He felt as though she were looking right through him while her own wide, hazel eyes irritatingly betrayed as much as a closed book. A furrow appeared over Lupin's brow as he wondered whether she was trying to detect the wolf in him. Don't go there, Moony, he chided himself. Now's not the time to wallow in self-pity. Besides, Padfoot and Prongs would be rolling over in their graves if they knew you were getting stared down by a one hundred pound Valley Girl. Remus subconsciously straightened his back and held her gaze steadily, even though his instincts were whispering at the back of his mind to look away.

Buffy stared intently into his soulful eyes even as her mother's voice paraded around her head, sternly berating her for terrible manners. Still, she couldn't tear herself away. So much pain and grief, loss and rejection. No, Buffy decided, he was quite different from Oz after all. Oz never looked upon her with tragic eyes tempered by decades fraught with the hopelessness of self-loathing and the loneliness of despair. No, Oz never had to live the life of an outcast. Buffy frowned as Professor Lupin stiffened abruptly.

Eleven years of nothing but death and destruction and she was now thrust into a world where prejudice and oppression still reigned. Fucking ridiculous. Yet, here he is, still fighting the good fight for a bunch of bigoted ingrates who don't even consider him a man. That thought alone penetrated her ennui long enough for Buffy to get a sudden urge to tell him it was okay, that he wasn't 'sub-human' or inferior if only to dispel his insecurities for a little while. She stamped down on the notion immediately; it would only make him think her insane. Not that the incessant staring isn't helping the case already. Instead, she looked him deeply in the eye as the corners from her mouth curled slowly upward into a heartfelt smile.

For a moment, Remus could only blink in a spectacularly stupefied fashion as a wholly genuine smile broke across Eliza's face. He had been dreading the customary look of fear and disgust only to see compassion, empathy. And acceptance? He was sure he had seen it. The werewolf belatedly returned her a surprised grin, feeling slightly silly about the immense relief that was now flooding his heart at so small a gesture. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered how something so trite as a simple smile could mean so much.

"Well, as entertaining as that staring contest was to witness, shall we move along to business as usual?" Dumbledore's amused voice broke through the silence that had descended upon them.

"Aye aye, captain," Buffy grinned, not missing a beat as she gave the Headmaster a sloppy civilian salute before tossing another lemon drop into her waiting mouth.

"Very well then." Albus nodded, setting down his cuppa to face his reinstated DADA professor. "I have a favor to ask of you, Remus," he spoke in a serious tone.

"What is it, Headmaster?"

Albus shared a quick look with Buffy before continuing, "Would you be so kind as to draw upon your contacts to help us locate Mr. Fenrir Greyback?"

"Alright," Remus agreed uncertainly as the wheels turned in his head. "May I ask why?"

"So he won't be able to chase the other puppies anymore," Buffy interjected with a glib half-grin.

Remus turned toward her with a frown of utter confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

"What Eliza is trying to say is that we want to prevent Fenrir from inflicting any further harm during the war," Dumbledore clarified calmly.

What? He can't mean what I think he means. "What?" Remus asked incredulously.

"I was hoping you would consent to pointing Miss Ashbery in the right direction at the right time."

Remus blinked. Although his voice sounded quite calm, he was having a hard time believing his ears. You've got to be joking me, old chap! Sending a seventeen year-old witch after the most vicious and feared werewolf in all of Europe? "You're sending her after Greyback?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"Nope. Actually, I volunteered," Buffy broke in, her nonchalance more reminiscent of someone discussing the weather than someone who had just consigned herself to a suicide mission.

Professor Lupin turned from the Headmaster to the tiny blonde, clearly convinced that the girl was not at all right in the head... that is, until he saw her face. Her schooled features remained as impassive as ever, but as he looked closer... really looked, that's when it hit him. Remus saw something he had seldom discerned on a human face: a strange mixture of good and evil, weariness of life and bored complacency that only the most ancient of beings could ever begin to feel. Dumbledore was beginning to get that look in his eyes (minus the evil aspect). But the girl had it in spades. It was so out of place on her deceptively young countenance, even though Remus guessed she had looked that way for a long time. Gazing at the woman-child with the unfathomable haunting eyes, he found himself asking the same unspoken question. _Who _is_ she?_

"Why did you?" he asked, watching her facial expression very carefully to try to get a feel for the mysterious girl.

Buffy picked up a biscuit and commenced to munch on it as she answered, "No one else seemed to want the job."

"But why do you want it?"

"Honestly? Because I'm bored," she said in a completely serious voice.

Buffy began nibbling on a second biscuit. Somehow, he could discern that she had told him the truth just then. Hmm. "Most people don't usually go hunting for a notorious werewolf simply because they're bored," he shrewdly pointed out.

"Most being the operative word."

Remus was silent for a long moment.

"Very well," Remus said at last to the pair, realizing that he wouldn't be able to get anything out of the taciturn young witch this way. "But only on the condition that I accompany Eliza on this mission," he amended in a firm tone. Professor Lupin waited while Dumbledore and Eliza shared a significant look.

At length, Buffy turned her attention back on the werewolf. "Why?" she asked calmly, turning the question back on him.

"Because I am the only Order member who has first-hand knowledge of the geographical location."

"Fair enough," Buffy breathed in an airy voice though she was fuming internally. What is it with men and their stupid male posturing!

Oh, I suppose it stems from our manliness, teased the Headmaster at the Slayer's mental grumblings.

Buffy scowled at the wizened wizard. Hardy har har, Gandalf!

"Well then, you've got all the time you need to discern Fenrir's whereabouts. We'll reconvene to discuss the mission once Remus obtains the necessary information. Thank you for having us, dear. Until then," Dumbledore smiled, brilliant blue eyes twinkling in satisfaction and humor as he stood.

Remus stepped out of the portrait hole after the Headmaster, his turned gaze catching and holding Eliza's until the painting of Penelope Puddlemere shut her from sight. Only then did he catch the fact that the blonde witch had never explicitly issued them an invitation into her room.

-

"I can't wait to see what Fred and George have come up with this year!" Ron grinned; he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he climbed the stairwell up to Gryffindor Tower with his two best mates. 

"Whatever it is, I hope it's more politically correct than U-No-Poo. Honestly, I don't know what they were thinking," Hermione weighed in on the conversation in a disapproving tone.

Ron turned to stare at her as if she had gone mad. "Are you kidding? That was the cleverest slogan they've thought up yet." He turned toward his black-haired friend when Hermione failed to look the least bit convinced, "Back me up here, Harry."

"Huh?" Harry shook himself out of his thoughts long enough to give a distracted reply. "Oh, it was genius."

All Harry received for his efforts of being a supportive friend was a lengthy glare from the bushy-haired witch. Shaking his head helplessly, Harry elected to return to his musings rather than be caught in the crossfire of the 'Ron and Hermione daily dispute' again. He hung back from the quarreling couple, partially to get away from the incessant bickering and partially because he somehow couldn't bring himself to feel as psyched about the upcoming excursion. Sure, the Seventh-Year Gryffindor was as ecstatic about the Weasley twins' new branch shop in the wizarding village as Ron, but he couldn't quell the feeling that something was decidedly missing.

At the sound of stone scraping on stone, Harry turned his head toward the corridor leading to Dumbledore's office to see the gargoyle guarding its entrance leap aside and a familiar figure emerge. "Eliza!" Harry yelled in sudden excitement, causing both Ron and Hermione to pause mid-stride and turn back. Buffy looked up at the sound of her alias being shouted down the hall to see Harry trotting toward her, followed closely behind by Ron and Hermione.

"Hey," she greeted.

"Hi Eliza," Harry beamed, running a hand through his unruly black hair. He felt his eyes trail over her small, shapely frame, taking in her elegant dress slacks and inevitably stopping on the v-neck sweater that dipped enticingly to show just the hint of the swell of her breasts. Feeling a flush creeping into his cheeks, Harry quickly averted his eyes as Ron and Hermione joined them.

"What's up guys?"

"Just getting back from supper," Ron answered, his gaze unconsciously sweeping over the petite blonde much in the same way Harry's had seconds earlier.

"What were you doing in Dumbledore's office?" Hermione couldn't help herself from asking.

Buffy rolled her eyes mentally. "Just having a nice chat," she answered.

Hermione stared skeptically at the blonde. "Why are your eyes _blue_?" she burst out suddenly.

At the question, Harry and Ron both locked her gazes on Eliza's face. Had they not been too busy checking out the rest of her body, the two Gryffindor Seventh-Years would also have noticed the change as well. Even in the dim flickering torchlight of the corridor, they could see that Eliza's normally hazel irises had transformed into a clear shade of blue not unlike their Headmaster's this evening. Scrunching up her nose, Buffy shut her eyes and concentrated. When she opened them a second later, her eyes had reverted back to their original hazel hue.

"Wow!" "Blimey!" Harry and Ron exclaimed at the same time only to be outdone by Hermione, who shouted, "You're a Metamorphmagus, aren't you?"

Buffy's gaze flitted between the three of them in confusion. "A Meta-what?"

"A Metamorphmagus is an incredibly rare wizard or witch who's able to change his or her appearance at will," Hermione recited automatically, sounding eerily like a walking textbook. "Although, I've never seen one who could alter their eye color before," she added, frowning as her mind quickly recalled the dinner when Tonks had entertained them by transforming her hair color and the shape of her nose.

Buffy shrugged in dismissal of the idea. "I'm pretty sure I'm not one."

"Then, how were you able to do that?" Hermione returned immediately and just barely reframed herself from pointing a finger at Eliza's hazel orbs.

"A spell," Buffy replied cautiously, suspiciously eyeing the three Seventh-Years standing in front of her. The deeply ingrained self-defenses flared up at once as her mental and emotional barriers leapt into place. "Why do you ask?"

"Without a wand?" Ron shot the girl an incredulous stare.

Buffy shrugged, a small frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. She was becoming quickly agitated by the Gryffindor Trio's barrage of questions. Had she known she would be facing the firing squad on her way out of Dumbledore's office, she would have disapparated instead.

"That's Auror-level concealment and disguise magic!" Hermione remarked, unconsciously leaning forward as she pierced the girl with her sharp, speculative gaze. "How could you have learned that already? Where did you-" the bushy-haired witch persisted.

"Does it matter? I can't see how that's any of your business," Buffy cut in, the annoyance was evident in her voice as she crossed her arms reflexively over her chest. "So...did you guys want something? Or is this just an impromptu reenactment of the Spanish Inquisition?" she asked them expectantly, the words coming out sharper than she had intended as she glared at all three in turn.

Eyes growing wide, Hermione could only stare back mutely at the petite blonde as the harsh words hit her like a slap in the face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry—" she murmured out a halfhearted apology as she felt her self-righteous inquisitiveness deflating on the spot.

"_Yes_, you did. So don't even try it," Buffy countered, drawing out the first word as Hermione shifted on her feet uncomfortably next to an embarrassed-looking Harry and a thoroughly confused Ron. Glaring at them for another minute, the blonde Slayer added, "I've got better things to do than be the subject of an interrogation. So, if you'll excuse me." She turned quickly on her heel and stalked away from the gaping trio toward the main corridor.

Ron was the first to recover. "Can someone please tell me what the bloody hell the Spanish Inquisition is?" he posed to no one in particular.

His question startled Harry and Hermione out of their daze, the latter of whom replied weakly, "It's a Muggle historical reference, Ron. I'll explain it later."

Cor, that went well, Harry thought morosely as he turned his angry gaze onto Hermione, green eyes flashing. "God, Hermione! Don't you know when to stop?"

Hermione turned toward Ron in desperation as she watched Harry hurrying to catch up to Eliza's rapidly retreating form. "I swear, I didn't mean—" she muttered, feeling hot tears burn in her eyes from the onslaught of her best friend's rebuke.

Ron sighed helplessly as he glanced back and forth from the black-haired wizard moving away from them in angry strides to the bushy-haired witch by his side who was trying very hard not to cry. Draping a lanky arm over the bushy-haired witch's slender shoulders, Ron gave her a gentle squeeze. "Come on 'Mione, let's go back to the common room. I'm sure Harry didn't mean it," he soothed, leading the distraught Hermione back toward the Fat Lady's portrait, even as he secretly questioned the truth to his own words.

-

"Eliza, wait!"

Buffy halted her step abruptly, whirling around with a scowl. Harry stopped as well, watching worriedly as the small blonde lifted a hand to brush away an errant strand of golden blonde hair that had fallen out from her messy French twist.

"What do you want, Harry?"

Harry backed away a little at the sight of the blonde's withering stare, idly wondering how someone so tiny could look so downright scary at times. "Er, I—I wanted to apologize for Hermione back there. Sometimes, she's a tad bit too nosy for her own good," he said hesitantly, a shy, rueful smile slowly forming on his lips.

"Oh." All traces of irritation dissipated from her system as she caught the black-haired wizard's honestly apologetic expression and remembered belatedly that he was the only one who hadn't bombarded her with questions. Sighing softly, she shrugged a third time as her facial features softened back to a usual state of neutrality. "It wasn't really your fault, but thanks anyway," Buffy nodded her thanks and made to leave again.

"Wait!" Harry called out instinctively.

Buffy pivoted round, "Yeah?"

"Actually," Harry began awkwardly, all of a sudden finding the stray balls of lint on his House jumper highly fascinating as he was hit by a rush of nervousness. "I was wondering if you knew about the Hogsmeade trip tomorrow."

A furrow appeared on Buffy's brow as she answered, "I didn't. What's Hogs Meet? Do you meet hogs or something?"

"No!" He looked horrified for a moment. "Not Hogs Meet! _Hogsmeade_. It's a small all-wizarding village outside the castle. All Third-Years and up are allowed to spend the second Saturday of every month there starting tomorrow."

"What's so great about it?" Buffy asked bluntly.

Harry frowned slightly, taken aback by her unexpected question. It took him a couple of seconds to remind himself that the blonde witch was a visitor from a foreign country and therefore unfamiliar with the normal Hogwarts school traditions. His brain was not functioning fast enough to verbalize why the picturesque village of little thatches and shops was the object of so much fanfare within the Hogwarts student population, so instead Harry blurted out the first thing that occurred to him. "Um, it's not school?"

Buffy quirked a slim, golden brow. "It's not like I'm forced to go anyway."

"There's a huge sweets shop," Harry supplied hopefully, feeling like he was grasping for straws.

Buffy's stoic face lit up instantly with a childlike wonder at the mention. "As in chocolate? And munchies?"

"Yeah, loads of it!" Harry grinned widely in relief. "Plus, every other wizarding treat you can imagine," he confirmed, nodding his head enthusiastically. His mouth was beginning to water just thinking about Honeydukes Sweetshop, which had certainly been the highlight of the trip for him last year. "And there's the new joke shop and the Three Broomsticks, which makes the best butterbeers around!"

"Hmm, sounds like there's potential."

For a long moment, Harry stood, his eyes tracing over Eliza's delicate features with more reverence than he was currently aware of as he balanced precariously on the precipice of indecision. He felt as though he had swallowed half a dozen miniaturized Cornish Pixies that were now doing elaborate flips and cartwheels inside his stomach. The rational part of his brain was insistently telling him that it was a bad idea, not worth the risk of dragging Eliza into his life of danger and uncertainty. After all, it was the same reasoning that had led him to call it off with Ginny just months ago.

Unfortunately, the urgings coming from the opposing side of his brain resounded just as fervently. In his short life of seventeen years, Harry had already lost so many people dear to him. Mum. Dad. Sirius. Too many. Sometime during the summer, Harry had come to the grim realization that as The Boy Who Lived, he probably had very few years left on his meter. It was foolishness to hope otherwise. Harry had promised himself then that he would make the best of it. He didn't want to have to live with the weight of new regrets in addition to the ones he already carried. Sighing resolutely, Harry decided to throw caution to the wind; the words tumbled forth in a jumbled stream from his lips.

"Sowouldyouliketocomewithmetomorrow?"


	18. Hogs Meet

**Author's Note:** My policy is thus on the previous polls: you can continue to give me your preferences, as I might just by swayed otherwise by an especially persuasive entreaty. Honestly, sometimes I think all the suggestions I've been getting are beginning to mess with my mind, making me overanalyze everything. So, whatever happens will just happen when it's time, I suppose. :-) However, I will make no apologies if the end result is not to your liking, since it is ultimately the writer's choice. I'll post the updated poll standings periodically. Here is the current set. 

_Who should be Buffy's new love interest(s)?_

Harry Potter 21   
Draco Malfoy 18   
Oliver Wood 4   
Severus Snape 4   
Charlie Weasley 4   
Sirius Black 4   
Fred/George Weasley 3   
Remus Lupin 1   
Hermione Granger 1   
Luna Lovegood 1

_Should Draco Malfoy be redeemed in this story?_

Yes 7   
No 4   
Not sure 3

Kudos to Shawn for stepping up on the beta-ing! Thank you for making this update possible!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face

Be glad your nose is on your face,   
not pasted on some other place,   
for if it were where it is not,   
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose   
were sandwiched in between your toes,   
that clearly would not be a treat,   
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread   
were it attached atop your head,   
it soon would drive you to despair,   
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be   
an absolute catastrophe,   
for when you were obliged to sneeze,   
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,   
remains between your eyes and chin,   
not pasted on some other place—  
be glad your nose is on your face!

Jack Prelutsky  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

-

**18. Hogs Meet**

-

"Come again?" Buffy blinked in confusion.

"Er," Harry said, feeling himself grow predictably red in the face.

Oh Merlin, it was the fiasco before the Yule Ball with Cho all over again. Suddenly, Harry wished the floor would open up like the stairs sometimes did and swallow him up just so he wouldn't have to face the rejection that he surely knew was coming. Eliza was obviously way out of his league. She was too pretty, too unattainable, too perfect. What was I even thinking? Hey, wait a minute, she's blonde! Maybe she's part Veela like Phlegm? He had been painfully aware of all the barely-concealed, covetous looks the petite blonde garnered from the Hogwarts male student population every time she had made an appearance in the school. Ron had positively drooled the first time the fellow Gryffindor set eyes on the elusive, American witch. Oh shite! Eliza's lips were moving.

"Harry?" she asked again, appearing puzzled as she watched the black-haired Gryffindor struggling to refocus on their conversation. "What were you saying?"

"Oh, er," Harry stalled, swallowing hard. His supper was now eagerly clambering to revisit his esophagus. "Do you want to come to Hogsmeade with us tomorrow, since it sounds like you've never been there before," he managed to get out with more coherence than he had thought possible.

Buffy pulled a face. "I don't know—I'm pretty sure that I'm not Hermione's favorite person right now."

"Oh." Harry's face fell. Well, as far as rejections go, that could have been a whole lot worse, he tried to console himself. "That's too bad. I'm sure Fred and George would have enjoyed meeting you though. They're the owners of the new joke shop there," he said as an afterthought.

Eliza instantly perked up. "Fred and George Weasley?"

"Er, yeah?" he answered uncertainly.

All of a sudden, Eliza grinned widely. "Maybe I'll have to go after all. Gred and Forge do still owe me ten drinks!"

Harry was having a hard time keeping up with the rapid developments. "Wait a second, you _know_ Gred and Forge—I mean Fred and George?" he asked incredulously.

"Oh yeah! Dumbledore introduced us," Buffy nodded, her hazel eyes gleaming as she wondered about what kinds of neat alcoholic beverages the wizarding world had to offer. If butterbeer was any indication, then she was definitely going to get a kick out of it. "So, when's this Hogs Meet trip going down?"

Harry blinked dumbly, responding belatedly when his brain finally registered her question. "Right after breakfast, we leave from the main castle gate."

"Awesome. I guess I'll see you around in Hogs Meet then." Buffy smiled again and walked away.

Harry stood stupidly in her wake as his flustered mind tried to make sense of the situation. Well, the good thing was that Eliza hadn't seemed to realize he had been asking her out on a date. And the bad thing was—she was apparently interested in Ron's older, wittier, and altogether more charming twin brothers. Harry ran a hand slowly down his face in dejection. He was pretty sure he would have wanted to wring out Fred and George's necks in that exact instant if he hadn't liked the redheaded prankster duo so much. Still, that didn't stop the black-haired Gryffindor from wishing on them both a very painful, ugly death for a second or two.

Blithering, sneaky, underhanded, girl-stealing bastards!

-

Minerva McGonagall did a double take when she spotted the familiar figure of a petite blonde walking towards her from the main gates of the castle. "I didn't expect to see you here, young lady," she remarked, her tone of voice reflecting pleasant surprise as she collected the permission forms from the few straggling Hogwarts students still in queue to be poked, prodded, and otherwise abused by Filch's Secrecy Sensor. 

Buffy grinned up at the Transfiguration professor, "Heard there was a field trip today. Didn't wanna miss out on all the wacky fun and excitement."

"Albus has never shown you around the wizarding village of Hogsmeade?"

"Nope. Only Diagonally."

"_Diagon Alley_," the stern witch correctly out of habit. The Transfiguration professor considered the girl _very_ fortunate then that she did not have to travel anywhere by the Floo Network, or Merlin knows where Eliza would end up! Peering sternly through her square glasses at the blonde, McGonagall said, "Well, I would have informed you of this excursion myself had you had the good grace to attend any of my classes past the first week of school."

Buffy ducked her head guiltily. "Oh, that. I'm sorry, Minnie. To be honest, I haven't been around the castle all that much."

The Gryffindor Head of House paused to examine the petite blonde closely. In actuality, she was less put off by the veteran Slayer's lack of classroom attendance than she intimated, but more than a little concerned. With each passing day of Eliza's unexplained absence, Minerva had felt more unease drift into her heart. Somewhere in the back of the Transfiguration professor's highly rational mind, she knew that it was ludicrous to worry for the safety and wellbeing of the Headmaster's guest. But she still was—worried. Looking down at the tiny girl, Minerva couldn't help but have trouble believing that this was indeed the longest living Vampire Slayer in recorded history when Eliza Ashbery appeared so unassumingly small and fragile in person. Breakable. Shaking her head imperceptibly, Minerva decided that life was not without its sense of irony.

"So I've heard. How are you, Eliza?" the Transfiguration professor inquired with a sigh. What she had really desired to ask went beyond the simple scope of the question, but Minerva wasn't entirely sure their budding friendship had progressed to that level of openness just yet.

"Getting better," the blonde Slayer replied a little too quickly to escape the professor's attention. Then, realizing just how much her answer had resembled a platitude, Buffy added, "A little." She frowned, still dissatisfied with that last assessment. Chewing on her bottom lip in thought, the petite blonde finally related, "It's still a work in progress, but you don't have to worry about my de-petaling the wildflowers anymore."

"I'm glad to hear that," Minerva remarked earnestly as Argus Filch snuck up behind her, sizing up the young blonde.

"Another victim for the slaughter, eh? Well, aren't you a pretty little thing? The pretty ones always did scream the loudest," Filch intoned nastily while blandishing his Secrecy Sensor in Buffy's face, a sadistic glint of nostalgia flaring up in his lamp-like eyes.

The Transfiguration professor turned swiftly to face the cantankerous Caretaker before the blonde Slayer could respond with a no doubt scathing reply. "No, Argus. That won't be necessary," she answered in a tight-lipped manner, gesturing to his Secrecy Sensor. "I shall accompany this young lady to Hogsmeade personally." Tugging away a rapidly bristling Buffy by the arm, she hastily led the retreat toward the main Hogwarts gates where a Thestral-drawn carriage sat waiting. "Good day, Argus," Minerva called politely over her shoulder.

"Thanks, Minnie," Buffy said once they were safely out of hearing range of the resident Hogwarts Caretaker. "I was about to lay the smack down on his skinny, shriveled ass just then," she professed as she climbed into the carriage after the tartan-hatted witch.

"I very much doubt that Albus would approve of such an abuse of your power," Minerva replied stiffly as she took a seat, although an amused smile flickered across her face for a split-second.

Buffy shrugged lightly as she settled next to the witch. "I'm just saying—" she trailed off as a newcomer joined them, situating himself on the opposite bench in the carriage. Her face soured immediately. "Oh. It's you."

The tall, thin wizard with sallow skin, long hooked nose, and greasy, shoulder-length hair sneered at her in response. "My, what a talent you have for stating the obvious, Ms. Ashbery," he drawled in a smooth, demeaning voice, his black eyes burning cold as they stared at the petite blonde as if she were nothing better than a nettlesome bug in need of a good squashing.

"Gee, thanks! It's nice to see that you've stayed as well-greased as ever, Professor Severe Snake," Buffy returned in a voice that sounded uncannily like the Buffybot's as the Thestral began to pull them toward the wizarding village on its own accord.

"That's Professor _Severus Snape_, you cheeky little chit," he scowled, narrowing his cold, black eyes menacingly. Just because the Headmaster and the rest of the Hogwarts staff seemed to have had the wool pulled over their eyes by the mysterious girl's thrall didn't mean _he_ was about to fall in line. "Minerva, what is this vapid, Yank trollop doing here?" he demanded.

The Transfiguration professor looked increasingly aggravated. "Eliza is here on my invitation. Would you believe that the girl has never been to Hogsmeade before?" she said, attempting to steer the conversation away from their foul starting point.

"Shocking," Snape drawled. "But then again, one should never expect too much from an expatriate of such an uncouth culture."

And the hits just keep on coming. Is today 'insult Buffy day' or something? "Right. And yours is just the pinnacle of civilization, what with all the hidden oppression and bigotry-driven war," she retorted astutely.

The Potions Master's scowl deepened as the long, tapered fingers on his right hand clenched and unclenched convulsively. A vein all of a sudden became a very prominent fixture on his left temple as Buffy simply crossed her arms over her chest and arched a golden brow in subtle challenge. For a tense instant, Minerva was afraid Severus would whip out his wand and try to hex the blonde Slayer as the Transfiguration professor observed the angry whirl of emotions swirling in his pale visage.

"SEVERUS! ELIZA! Calm yourselves! You're behaving like a pair of insolent children. I expected more sense from you two than to get into an outright brawl during a _five-minute_ carriage ride! Now, kindly desist from this abysmal foolishness at once," said Professor McGonagall, breathing heavily through her long pointed nose, her square spectacles flashing dangerously.

Buffy felt a sudden need to rub her throbbing eardrums as the stern witch finished her rather loud reproach, but refrained from acting out that impulse on account of seeing Minerva's nostrils flare. Casting a furtive glance toward the Potions professor, the small blonde saw that he was now scowling unobtrusively at her, as though attempting to peel her apart at the seams with his caustic glare. Resisting the urge to snort at the very idea of being intimidated by a measly evil eye, the blonde Slayer sighed and turned away to stare at the throng of Hogwarts students traversing on foot along the paved road. Four extremely long minutes later, their carriage had arrived at its destination.

"If you'll excuse me, I've some errands to see to," Snape announced gruffly. Without so much as a glance at either Minerva or Buffy, he stalked off with his cloak billowing as soon as the Thestral cantered to a stop.

Professor McGonagall shot Buffy a disapproving look, her mouth pressed into a thin line, as she got off the carriage. Heaving another sigh, the blonde Slayer hopped out after the Deputy Headmistress and into the rustic cobblestone street running through the center of Hogsmeade.

"So, where would you like to go first?" Minerva inquired, a hint of exasperation still lingering in her voice.

"Um, how about a tour and then Fred and George's joke shop," Buffy answered, trying to appear properly chastised and failing miserably in her attempt.

At the odd expression on the girl's face, Professor McGonagall's chilly demeanor dissolved. A tiny smile spread across her face before she quickly composed herself. "I must confess that it was rather amusing to see Severus so riled. He's usually such a source of terror for the students, especially the underclassmen—and Mr. Longbottom, the poor boy."

Buffy grinned in relief. "Maybe that's because Sir Sneer A Lot could easily pass for a member of the undead, bumpy forehead society," she quipped dryly, threading an arm through the older witch's as they set off at a leisurely pace down the street.

Professor McGonagall tactfully chose to ignore the crack on the Potions Master's distinctive appearance. "That's Madam Rosmerta's The Three Broomsticks, a respectable pub that serves fantastic butterbeer as well an assortment of drinks depending on your fancy," she pointed to the inviting-looking two-story cottage to their right. "Perhaps we'll pop by there for lunch."

"On that hill is the Shrieking Shack. It's widely-reputed to be haunted, but in actuality is merely someplace Albus created for Remus to stay during his monthly transformations when he was a student at Hogwarts."

"Wow, that's really nice of Dumbledore," Buffy remarked, feeling her respect for the Headmaster grow exponentially at the revelation.

"Indeed," Professor McGonagall affirmed with pride.

They passed by several thatches on the left side of the road before Minerva spoke again. "The large building on the right is the post office. It houses at least three hundred owls that carry messages at different speeds. And on our left is Honeydukes Sweetshop. It's quite a popular spot for the children as they sell a wide variety of sweets as well as homemade fudge and chocolate."

"Okay, _definitely_ have to stop by there later," Buffy cooed eagerly, hazel eyes glazing over slightly as her mind was assaulted with drool-worthy scenes from _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_.

"And here we are at the new branch of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. I daresay Argus probably fantasizes about tearing the place apart brick by brick," Minerva said with a smile in her voice.

Buffy halted in her tracks as the twins' joke shop came into her field of vision. The blonde Slayer sincerely thanked her lucky stars that she wasn't an epileptic, or she would have suffered an episode right then and there. Contrary to the quaint, subdued storefronts of the neighboring buildings, the two large display windows of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes flashed and blazed like twin technicolor beacons. The left-hand window was filled with an array of dazzling products that made Buffy dizzy just by looking at them. A giant, neon blue poster emblazoned with flashing orange letters covered the entire expanse of the right-hand window. She hastily scanned it and burst out laughing. Man, I wish I'd known those two five years ago! They would've done wonders for my post post-mortem depression, she thought, shaking her head in wry amusement. Minerva took a closer look at the advertisement and just barely bit back her own ensuing chuckle.

_**BEWARE THE DEATH BEATERS!**_

_Worrying your head over Death Eater attacks?  
You SHOULD beware of DEATH BEATER attacks!  
These unassuming, little, black cloaks are knocking  
over the nation by storm! Literally!_

Buffy sent McGonagall a side-long glance. "You wanna take a rain check on the rest of the tour and go in there now?"

It didn't look like the professor had needed much convincing as the blonde Slayer led the charge arm-in-arm into the shop. The place was bustling with customers. Gaggles of eager-looking Hogwarts students swarmed around the colorful, alphabetized shelf displays and product stands that were stacked with boxes up to the ceiling. Buffy stared around in wonder as she felt the Transfiguration professor steer them together towards a slightly less crowded area where they could get near enough to actually see the merchandise labels and descriptions. The blonde Slayer scanned the product names on boxes of sundry sizes as they squeezed through to the shelf designated _'T is for Teasing'_.

_'Tapdancing Tootsies'   
'Telltale Ticklers'   
'Tongue-twisting Truffles: Individual and Variety Packs'   
'Torrential Topical Thunderstorms'   
'Traipsing Trunksters'_

Minerva picked up a box of _'Tongue-twisting Truffles: Ultimate Variety Pack'_ priced at fifteen Galleons and turned it over to read the product information on the back.

"'_Apple Polisher: Brings out the sniveling sycophant in any Dick or Jane!   
Fancy Foreigner: Impress the witch or wizard of your dreams! (Accents come in French, Spanish, Italian, German, Australian, American, Cockney, Irish, Scottish, Mermish, Troll)_'"

The stern witch let out an uncharacteristic snort at the last item on the list.

"'_Potty Mouth: Turns every dull, ordinary sentence into a witty insult!   
Smarty Pants: Transforms any thick-headed git into a smooth operator!   
Tone-deaf Toner: Guaranteed to replace ear-hemorrhaging with dulcet melody!   
(Results last up to twenty-four hours depending on the individual).'_"

Minerva gingerly replaced the box to its shelf with a small smile that bespoke of fondness. "As much as it pains me to say this: that's quite extraordinary magic!"

Just as Buffy picked up a box of Traipsing Trunksters, a familiar voice sounded from behind them.

"Well, bless my heart, it's Professor McGonagall!"

Turning around, the pair found a beaming stocky, redhead standing before them, clad in a set of vibrant magenta robes that had the effect of making his hair look ablaze. Pinned on his right lapel was a rectangular nametag that flashed in glittering green letters: _George Weasley_—_at your disservice!_

His twin soon trotted over as well. "Never thought I'd live to see the day when our old Head of House would be mingling with the little folk," Fred grinned, throwing a hand over his heart in feigned astonishment.

"Fred, I think I heard her say something about us and extraordinary, too!" George shared in a stage whisper, looking mightily pleased with himself.

George proceeded to mime wiping away a tear from his cheek. "Blimey, a feel a sniffle coming on."

Professor McGonagall gave them both a piercing look, but Buffy was sure that she had almost smiled. In any case, her mouth appeared less thin for a moment.

"So, what brings you two lovely ladies here this fine morning?" Fred inquired, sneaking an arm around Buffy's narrow shoulders.

"Not much, really," Buffy shrugged, she couldn't help but grin along.

"You can have that on the house," George said to Buffy with a winning smile.

The blonde swiftly glanced down at the small box still held in her hands, she had forgotten it was even there. "Oh, I was just curious about what it does." Unobtrusively, she moved to place it back on its shelf, not wanting the twins to accidentally discover that she was immune to wand magicks.

"Well, I think a demonstration is in order, don't you George!"

"Right-o, Fred!" George intercepted the box, flipping open the lid and popping a bright green-colored candy into his mouth.

Buffy and Professor McGonagall watched the redheaded young wizard curiously for several seconds, but nothing seemed to be happening. Just then, George's nose gave a slight wriggle, then a jerk, and then to the blonde Slayer and Transfiguration Professor's complete surprise lurched suddenly away from the center of his face to drift over to his left cheek. Buffy's mouth fell slightly ajar as George's nose wandered up to his forehead. Without warning, the petite blonde erupted into an uproarious fit of giggles, loud enough to attract several passerbys' attention. George's grin grew wider at her response, before shouting to the crowd, "Traipsing Trunksters, eight Sickles for a five-pack! A bargain!" Closing the lid on the package, he handed it to a still giggling Buffy, his wide grin somewhat ruined by his nomadic nose. She graciously accepted the free merchandise, unable to keep a straight face as she mumbled her thanks.

Fred beamed down at the petite Slayer, giving her shoulder a playful squeeze. "Anything else we can do for you? A Pygmy Puff? Patented Daydream Charm? Love potion?"

Buffy pulled a face at the last enumerated item. The last time someone brewed up a love potion, she had been oh-so-conveniently turned into a rat after almost having her wicked way with Xander, of all people. Well, at least it wasn't Giles or Principal Snyder, she thought with a mental shudder. Shaking away those best-left-forgotten memories, she replied, "Actually, I wanted to collect on those drinks you guys promised me."

George began grinning in enthusiasm when his shoulders suddenly slumped. "Bugger. Claudia's taken the day off and we're swamped with all the kiddies today," he muttered with disappointment etched clearly in his face.

"How about this?" Fred began, "We'll be at the Diagon Alley branch all next week. Just pop by then and we'll go get properly smashed at the Leaky Cauldron."

"That's brill, Fred!" George shouted, looking chuffed to bits again. "We get off work at nine."

Buffy grinned. "Sounds like a plan."

Before the twins could say anything else, a small, wide-eyed boy tugged on George's elbow. "Excuse me sirs, are your Muggle magic trick cards real magic?" he asked in a squeaky voice.

A red brow rose incredulously on Fred's face. The young wizard looked about ready to take the mickey out of the titchy boy before he sighed helplessly, "Sorry, Eliza. Duty calls."

Reluctantly, Fred withdrew his arm from around Buffy's shoulder and made off with his twin to assist the customer.

"Help yourselves to anything you want, ladies," George called over his shoulder, "Free of charge!"

"And if you don't visit us, we'll cry!" Fred added with a pout and puppy eyes.

Professor McGonagall, who had remained silent during the entire exchange, quirked an eyebrow at the petite blonde. "It looks like you've just made two more conquests of the male species, Eliza," she intoned with a hint of a smile pulling at her lips.

Buffy rolled her eyes at that. Threading an arm through the Transfiguration Professor's again, she said, "Come on, let's check out the rest of Hogs Meet before we get stampeded by all the students."

"_Hogsmeade_, if you please."

-

Buffy wrinkled her nose in disgust as she peered down at a bowl of Cockroach Clusters on display. Apparently, they were made with real cockroaches in them. The Slayer shifted the half dozen or so bags of recently purchased goodies into one hand as she popped another sherbet lemon into her mouth. Glancing around Honeydukes Sweetshop idly, a strange, moving, miniature creature with the head of a man, body of a lion, and tail of a scorpion caught her eye. The petite blonde moved off to take a closer gander at the wee beast that was guarding a pot of gold-foil wrapped chocolate Galleons inside a glass display case.

"That's a Manticore, you know," a calm voice intoned.

The blonde Slayer whipped her head around to see a round-faced brunette teenage boy holding hands with a girl with straggly, dirty blonde, waist-length hair standing beside her.

"I thought they were supposed to have wings, too." Buffy said, recalling a snatch of picture she had seen in one of Giles's musty monster books.

"They used to," confirmed the girl in a dignified, serene voice. "But their wings rotted off from an epidemic of Tuberculosis that spread through the Manticore prides during the late seventeenth century. My father wrote an article on it in _The Quibbler_ last year."

"Huh..." Buffy trailed off uncertainly, not knowing how exactly to respond to that little tidbit of information.

The teenage boy with slightly large front teeth seemed to share in this opinion as he discreetly looked at the girl askance for a second. "You're Eliza Ashbery, right?" he asked with a smile, breaking the awkward silence. "I'm Neville Longbottom."

"And my name is Luna Lovegood," added the young witch as she studied the small Slayer with dreamy, pale, protuberant eyes.

The veteran Slayer returned the smile as she secretly thanked her mother and father for deciding to go with 'Buffy', all things considered. After all, 'Buffy Summers' could almost pass for normal next to 'Luna Lovegood' and 'Neville Longbottom'. "Hi—"

The gingerbread grandfather clock next to the store entrance chimed.

Quickly checking her wristwatch, Buffy shot an apologetic look at the odd couple. "I gotta go catch my ride, but it was great meeting you guys."

"Oh, wait!" Neville called after her, causing the Slayer to stall her step. "I thought you might want to know that Harry was looking for you earlier."

"Okay, thanks," Buffy replied distractedly as she made for the door.

By the time the Buffy climbed into the Thestral-drawn carriage, arms laden with the day's assorted purchases after she and Minnie had gone their separate ways after a delectable lunch at The Three Broomsticks, Professors McGonagall and Snape were already seated and engaged in a discussion about something or the other—the veteran Slayer didn't particularly care to listen in at the moment. Instead, Buffy sat back and watched the scenery fly by as the reddening sun began to dip below the far horizon at a lethargic pace. A rare effervescence settled in the petite blonde's heart as she couldn't help but conclude that today was best day she had had in longer than she could remember—so much that even a crack about her deplorable Valley Girl spending habits from the snarky Potions Master failed to dampen the Slayer's spirits on their way back to the castle. Taking out an Acid Pop from one of the Honeydukes shopping bags, Buffy sucked on the tangily tart candy, replete. In the transitory instant before dusk descended upon her world, she felt like she was young again.


End file.
